


Leverage

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Burn, Unresolved Emotional Tension, prison wives, smiles as deputy governor, vera as a prisoner, will as governor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2018-12-16 11:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 24,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11827530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: From Deputy to Governor to Prisoner, Vera Bennett endures the harshest fall from grace. Forced to survive, how will she cope when she now exists as an inmate alongside her former mentor, Joan Ferguson?





	1. Untrust Us

**Author's Note:**

> So, this idea spawned when tumblr user, thinkingofyoulately, mentioned a fic idea in which Vera lands herself in prison. Kudos to you for inspiring me! In regards to the setting, Bea Smith is tragically deceased. This takes place shortly after the events of season 4 and during the beginning of season 5. I will not be including the Kangaroo Court, the finale, or Vera and Jake being a couple. It's one, big, old AU. Instead, this fic will be a canon divergent piece while integrating aspects of Vera and Joan's personalities into the setting as inmates of Wentworth rather than their former roles. I'll be taking many liberties with this fic. I hope you all enjoy this!

> “This is the debt I pay  
>  Just for one riotous day,  
>  Years of regret and grief,  
>  Sorrow without relief.”  
>  _The Debt_ – Paul Laurence Dunbar

A plain, diminutive woman sits at her round table in the center of her equally plain, bleak kitchen. With her hot cuppa, she glosses over the morning paper. In her modest opinion, no news is good news. It's a pity, considering that there's nothing but chaos run amok.

Steam performs a sultry dance, peaking out of her grey mug. The bag's been discarded. She sips despite the risk of burning her tongue. There's worse pain to endure in this world.

She scalds her tongue.

Hisses and tries, tries again.

Quite suddenly, the doorbell rings. The buzzer screeches and she all but winces. Sets the paper down so that the seven-day forecast talks about a hint of rain and gloom by the end of the grueling week.

"Coming," Vera tiredly replies.

Her modest ponytail bounces behind her. Dressed in house clothing, she's not made to impress. Her bare feet pad across the tile that she ripped up and replaced herself. Though the Bennett household had been remodeled, it still doesn't feel like it belongs to her. Call it a sham properly juxtaposed to her joke of a life.

A thundering knock accompanies the bell.

_What could it be now?_

Old nerves cause her heart to skip a beat. Momentarily, her hands shake. The affirmation band around her wrist no longer exists.

A pack of wolves arrive at her door. They all look alike, their judgmental eyes upon this lamb who stands her ground.

The detective flash their badges, flaunt their statuses, and announce the grim diagnosis. She feels dwarfed by their presence, looking up at the small crowd and hearing the sordid shouts of the paparazzi.

They sound bloodthirsty.

"Vera Bennett, you're placed under arrest for the obstruction of evidence and on account of murder."

She forces a smile. Tilts her head, her hand upon the door.

"I... I'm sorry?"

The rest becomes white noise. Static in her ears. Wool pulled tight over her baby blue eyes. Her rights are read and she idly wonders if she's fallen asleep watching some hotshot cop drama, but it's real.

It's realer than real when she's spun around like a paperdoll, the frigid metal encompassing her wrists. She's left to dwell on the mercy kill of her mother and the eminent relief that washed over her.

The obstruction of the shiv that Bea Smith died upon. Tossed down the sewer drain.

Her eyes squeeze shut. The cuffs keep her effectively shackled, her hands brought together in some cheap ploy at divinity. Police escort former Governor Vera Bennett down the lonely walkway that's now bustling with activity. The media hold out their microphones. Condemned, she keeps her head bowed low.

The cameras capture her expressionless face, her faceless expression – whichever it may be.

They duck her into the van that chains her in place. All the way to Hell, the vain experiences turbulence. Over the muted whispering of the guards in the front, she's left to dwell on her fate. Imprisoned for life, she presumes that there will be no chance for parole.

On remand, she wonders, if that will be the key to her salvation.

Vera needs to invest in a damn good lawyer.

A chainlink fence rattles when it comes apart. Anxiety multiples in her veins. Goosebumps prick her flesh although her jaw locks into place. She can't show fear; she won't show fear.

The back door swings open. Through a single stare, Officer Jake Stewart eats her alive. Pretty boys are too good to be true.

Reunited again within these concrete walls, Vera hopes out. Stewart escorts her into the place she used to love and the place she grew to hate. There, she enters the room designated for strip searches. He leaves her where she's left to dwell on the consequences.

Officer “Smiles” steps in. Vera narrows her eyes. Catches a glimpse of the badge.

_Deputy Governor._

Too soon.

_A bloody disaster._

“Time for your strip search, Bennett,” Linda announces in that cruel, mocking way of hers. She's grinning without revealing her shark teeth.

“I know the drill, Officer Miles,” Vera quips in mounting frustrating, irritation, the grief of being found out.

"Hair, ears, mouth," Miles lists body parts like it's a black market business.

Ever complacent, Vera does as instructed. She shakes out her hair. She pulls on her ears. One by one the articles of her clothing fall down. She holds out her arms. She spreads her legs and bends over. Cool air caresses her. Infiltrates her.

She swallows a gasp.

When Smiles is content with the search, Vera Bennett attempts to pull herself together again, but whose image is she molded in this time around?

“Hope you have a grand inheritance from your mum. It could help you help me,” Linda pitches in, the epitome of greed.

Disgust churns her gut. What meager possessions she has are placed in a white laundry basket. It rests snug under the crook of her arm. They're to assign her a cell, but in which block?

She closes her eyes, vulnerable without the safety of the uniform, clad in jeans and a v-neck sweater.

The rec-center's gate moans. Threatens to collect rust. Better fault that on the budget cuts this time around.

Vera braces herself for the heat.

She takes a step forward.

Into the fire, she goes.

 


	2. Concrete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vera Bennett hugs the white laundry basket full of her possessions under the crook of her arm. It all feels surreal to her, as though this is a distant, fleeting dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you that Joan will be included in the next chapter. Before they interact with one another, they must first be apart

> “We think of the key, each in his prison  
> Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison.”
> 
> _What the Thunder Said_ – T.S. Eliot  
>   
> 

Vera Bennett hugs the white laundry basket full of her possessions under the crook of her arm. It all feels surreal to her, as though this is a distant, fleeting dream. Come morning, she'll wake up from it all. Fix her morning cuppa, gloss over the headlines in the news, and throw on the uniform with the crowns.

A pity for her: she's still awake, still breathing, in this maddening Picasso landscape.

The chainlink fence distorts many of the women. To her, they look garish. Fiendish. Even monstrous. It reminds her of how she once viewed dear, old Mum. Sunlight intensifies the shadows in the corner of the rec room. With her jaw clenching, she stares ahead. Puts one timid foot in front of the other until she shuffles along.

"Ey, Vinegar Tits!" Boomer shouts, amused by the situation rather than the irony. She's always been a brute, all hands and arms. She doesn't lead; she follows.

Hooting and hollering gives them a less than human flair. The dichotomy of her thoughts threaten to tear her asunder.

_They're acting like animals..._

She wanted to be loved, to be adored, to fight for the advocacy of these victims turned inmates. Now, they turn against her.

A glob of saliva lands near the tips of her toes. Vera's teeth slide across her bottom lip, her brows coming together. Escorted into another winding corridor, she leaves behind the women who attempt to bait and taunt her.

Akin to days old, her heart thunders madly in her chest. Anxiety makes a fool of dear Vera, but she recalls her ritualistic breathing exercises without the affirmation band to guide her.

Will Jackson seems to appear, disturbing her overwhelmingly negative thoughts. He acts as the newest bureaucratic replacement. What made him stay after all this time, after all this heartbreak?

Vera wouldn't know.

Meg's a ghost: a grave that's begun to sink in.

She knows that Channing is responsible for this change in status. The chauvinistic pig often questioned the efficacy of a woman governor. She grimaces, unable to mask her distaste.

"You'll be housed in Proctor's unit," he announces.

Surprised, she blinks. Shakes her head. Looks up at him and how she loathes staring up; she's been forced to do it her entire life, dwarfed by another person's shadow. Tossing aside her meekness, she raises her voice.

"With all do respect, Will, do you honestly believe that to be the best choice? Given my history--"

 _With the Devil_  needn't be said.

"For your safety, Miss Bennett, yes. And it's Governor now."

Will pities her.

This, she knows.

Neither of them are wholly innocent.

She could drag him under should she chose to, but she won't. She isn't Joan Ferguson, Master Manipulator extraordinaire. She is the lackluster Vera Bennett who waits until it's her time to shine (which is never; like an old doll, she collects dust).

"Understood," she mumbles and loses the tenacity of her voice.

But she doesn't want to understand, doesn't want to fathom how this all began.

Governor Jackson escorts her to her respective unit. Smiles lingers in the background, her signature smirk in place. Undoubtedly, she's thinking about her gambling fund: it's an addiction like any other, temporary and gratifying until the loss throws you under. Vera pities her, but that's the cost of having a heart.

Will lingers behind her when they approach her vacant cell. The place lacks a personal touch. Brick walls remain distasteful, bland. The cot is covered by a sparse, white sheet. No longer an outsider looking in, she's on the inside looking out. The cell takes on a sinister appearance.

"We'll find you a uniform in your size."

Vera sucks the air through her teeth, holding the laundry basket until its slots leave angry indentations against her upper arm. She hears Jacs Holt snickering inside her head.

_Or you'll end up trading in your greys for that that lovely shade of teal and I might not be so nice to you then._

Jacs is dead and now she's here. Shivers run down her spine. She tries not to dwell on the drugs she smuggled in. Instead, she pays mind to Will's sympathetic tone. He cares, he cares too fucking much. They both do.

A pause. There's concern in his watery, red-rimmed eyes. "Oh, and Vera?"

"--Yes?"

Barely audible, her response is faint. She's the aftermath of church bells ringing, pinging in your skull.

"For the record, I'm sorry."

She smiles sadly, appreciating his honesty despite the hurt she feels when she stares at the crowns.

"Me too."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to @thelexfiles for reminding me that Jacs utters that line to Vera about swapping the greys for teal!


	3. Air War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logistics thinly veil plotholes here. Joan Ferguson is ever the facetious one. In waltzes a force to be reckoned with donning a fresh pair of teals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my cue to say, "I don't care about canon anymore; welcome to the mess that is my mind." In all honesty, I'm simply going with the flow to craft this story.

> “Hating you shall be a game played with cool hands and slim fingers.”
> 
> _Hatred_ – Gwendolyn B. Bennett

Tiredly, Governor Will Jackson's eyes flick over to the CCTV. A growing restlessness infects the prison complex. He rubs his jaw, studying the monitor until he feels as though his skull's bleeding. Truth be told, he worries about Vera Bennett.

He never expected someone so good-natured and good-hearted to fall under corruption's iron hand. His fault lies in the sympathy he has; he'll watch over her not as the ever omniscient God, but as a friend.

Bias affects the way he thinks.

There's a hearty knock and he's reminded of the wolf at his door. Governor Jackson looks up, the vein in his neck pronounced underneath the uniform collar. No longer does he dabble in steroids. His cocaine fix has been placed on the backburner; he tries to better himself for the women's sake, but vice is one hell of a temptation.

He thinks of the bottle of Jack back home. His mouth runs dry, full of cotton. _I want it, but I don't need it._

“Ferguson to see you; I know she's your favorite to handle,” Deputy Miles takes a snip when she lingers in the threshold. "Should've let the wicked witch burn," Linda quips with a hearty slap to the doorframe.

“Send her in,” he states simply before allowing his hands to rest on top of the desk.

Her lopsided grin slants all the more. With her hands clamped in front of herself, she nods her head. Steps away and vanishes.

Logistics thinly veil plotholes here. Joan Ferguson is ever the facetious one. In waltzes a force to be reckoned with donning a fresh pair of teals.

"You've made a few changes," Joan notes with obvious distaste.

At heart, it remains her office. Ever watchful, her eyes flick around the room. Jackson's office - **her** office - holds a lackluster appeal. _You've tainted hollowed ground._

Gone are the certificates of her merit, replaced instead by photographs and a motivational poster. The Tolkien quote is undoubtedly robbed from a book whose meaning has been lost upon the public. Her lip twitches. Vile.

It reads as follows, ' All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us. '

How ironic.

"Have a seat."

Her tiger, the sworn enemy, gestures to the leather chair with its metal frame.

Coolly, she brushes aside his offer. Dismisses his hospitality with a proud head held high.

"That won't be necessary."

Tiger and lion in the same den make for an interesting exchange. She stands, looking down at the man who's robbed her of so much. Spite is a powerful thing, but it's not all about Will Jackson. It never was.

"Tell me, Mr. Jackson, has that title cured you of your inherent emptiness? I think not. Your faith in humanity is as twisted as my own."

"You've always loved putting words in people's mouth," Will quips in a sordid attempt to defend himself. He cares little for the mind games, much preferring to get to the heart of the matter: the real reason as to why she's here.

On her own accord, Joan sits. Scrutinizes Wentworth's logo. Folds her hands atop her lap. Fine lines crinkle around her granite eyes. There's a mocking sort of mirth buried within.

“Get on with it; tell me what you want,” he continues, brushing the side of his hand across the expanse of the desk. His name plate's tilted at an angle. It irks her; her upper lip twitches at the minor offense.

“Very well. Release me into general. I will sign a form of consent so that you may avoid any more **blood** on your hands. You see, I already have Channing's approval in the matter. He's hardly fit for his role; in fact, “Channing continues to make remarkably _poor_ decisions. Wouldn't you agree, Will?”

As if he's rubbernecking near an impending car crash, he gawks at her. Why, he may as well turn to stone from her Gorgon smolder. Shock twists his once friendly features into something garish.

On one hand, he's impressed by her resolve. On the other, he's royally pissed that she went above his authority to contact Channing directly about this little issue.

“Haven't you learned a single thing from being on the inside?” He fires back, his artillery freshly loaded.

She remains a stoic at heart, unaffected by his scrutiny. It will take more than a single man to strike her down.

"I hardly believe that... _Derek_ will disagree with your decision. In fact, he may commend you. Go on, have one with the boys tonight and celebrate the fall of another woman."

Joan quirks a brow, her fingers steeped, forming a pyramid to fit her very deliberate mold.

_Bugger me._

He experiences a dizzying roller coaster of emotions to combat the aristocratic portrait of apathy before him. Masking his mouth with a closed fist, his eyes widen. Closer inspection reveals a few burst vessels. Ferguson contemplates the explanation behind the observations.

_Drugs again? Pathetic._

“The last thing I want is to celebrate your bloody demise,” he counters, irked by this losing battle.

One by one, she prattles off a list to abide by. Her scarred fingers, raw and pink, are counted off by her good hand. There's a paper on the desk that means they're both signing off their lives, tossing away the lock and key.

"I don't do laundry. I prep my own meals. I prefer to be housed with inmates unaware of my status. However, if we must accommodate, Proctor may suffice. That will make your job far easier. Pay attention, Mr. Jackson. This could cost you your career."

She snaps her fingers to grab his attention. Akin to a dog, he raises his head – shakes his sore muzzle and she finds off the compulsion to sneer. She needn't give him the satisfaction of this sinking feeling. Joan, as always, vows to rise above it all.

"Which unit will you put me in, hm? Proctor and I suffered a rather... unfortunate skirmish, but these things can be remedied. She's a bleeding heart, you know."

“I don't know if I can do that, Ferguson. Surely, you know why. Conflict of interest,” he begins. Sells the truth out. “--Vera Bennett has been placed in her unit.”

She pretends not to act fazed, her fingers laced together. Crossing her legs at the knee, her lecture takes a temporary pause.

_I groomed you to be my successor; you've become such a disappointment, my dear Vera._

Clenching her jaw, she breathes through her nose. Tastes the clinical air that best describes the compound.

“...Surely, you can work around that. We are no longer colleagues.”

So nothing, they become.

Mr. Jackson stalls. He's a motorcycle engine that's spluttering. His stare hardens, but the look isn't for him – he can't do it; he can't be the pinnacle of control that was (is) Joan Ferguson.

"With all due respect, Ferguson, there's nothing for you to gain by playing the villain."

"It's what the women want. They need a pariah and a scapegoat all in one. They're driven by their own fear, motivated by their hate, and give into their primal instincts. You need someone to whip them into shape." She leans forward, her contempt apparent. "Are you up for the challenge?"

Temporarily, Will's eyes dart away. He feels the Atlas burden pressing down on his shoulders, latching onto his heart. With a clearing of the throat, he sucks in a deep breath. It's not whiskey; for now, it'll do.

"A lot of things can kill a man or a woman, Joan. This decision of yours could bloody well kill you."

"You want me dead,” Joan states with pursed lips in the aftermath. “I recognize it in your eyes. Seems you've already killed a part of yourself, mm?"

The terrifying revelation that he's fucked up dawns upon him. Winded, he pinches the bridge of his nose. _I've fallen for her damn manipulations._

"Meet my demands and this will go easier on you. On Wentworth's reputation," Joan drawls whilst pretending to examine her nails. Even despite the change in her status, she remains immaculate – pristine down to the well-groomed ponytail and unwrinkled teal.

She's got him by the fucking balls.

A compromise comes between them. He stares at the paper, at the pens in their little, black container. Will makes a motion to grab one, but stops suddenly. He holds out three fingers, akin to the Devil's mark – befitting for the way that Joan Ferguson possesses this concrete place.

"I'll grant your demand in three days, Ferguson."

Pleased by the outcome, she offers up one of her enigmatic smiles. Stands again, exuding her typical confidence though the crowns have long been lost.

“See you soon, Governor.”

She needn't look over her shoulder to see the picture of a man crippled by his eminent self-destruction. He's done a fine job of plaguing himself; she's merely kept the ball rolling. The door clicks behind Joan and Deputy Miles escorts her back to protection.

"Fuuuuck."

Will hisses, his palms covering his eyes.

See no evil, so they say.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though Joan uses the toothless tiger analogy to describe Kaz, I quite believe it fits Will's mold as well.


	4. Crimewave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter: the Devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter to keep the ball rolling... As is the case with most stories, there will be many discrepancies apparent: plot holes, unresolved conflict, unanswered questions, etc. Such is the price of writing something so canon divergent! The past few chapters have been a lead up to Joan and Vera "reuniting," if you will. As this fic progresses, I'll focus less on the other characters and more so on them. Do bear with me for these introductory chapters!

> "Passing through huddled and ugly walls by doorways where women looked from their hunger-deep eyes."
> 
> _The Harbor_ \- Carl Sandberg

In the hallway, Gambaro leers at Vera Bennett along with her boys that follow along, more similar to a pack of hyenas than a ragtag group of mangy mutts.

"We meet again, Vinegar Tits," Juice proclaims, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her teals. Caddishly, she flicks out her thick, wet tongue and wags it at the small woman who's escorted down the hall.

Revulsion churns her stomach. A darker part of Vera – the one who's piled the crimes high – wishes that she could simply cut out her tongue. She looks away. Doesn't give Juice's the crew the satisfaction of a response.

_What's happening to me?_

Though she wilts, she looks ahead.

“Enough. Put it away and leave her be.”

The toothless tiger and current Top Dog folds her arms across her chest. Her legs are spread apart in a stance that exudes confidence. Kaz Proctor has two of her girls behind her; for now, they have her back.

“We women've got to stick together. You're with me now. No one's gonna hurt'cha.”

Vera falters, surprised by the act of solidarity.

“You're standing by me? But Proctor, Kaz, I was G _uv'na_ ,” she responds and feels so bloody empty – robbed of status, robbed of self.

“Deadset. You did good on us. Better than most,” Kaz says with a loose, albeit genial shrug. She cocks her head, gesturing towards the cellblock. “Get yourself settled in. You need anything, don't hesitate.”

For a fleeting moment, Kaz lingers in the doorway of the once vacant cell. Reminiscent of a diamond catching the light (catching the hurt), her eyes shine brilliantly. She pats the frame before disappearing into the corridor.

Now alone, Vera sets down the basket of her belongings on the desk. The brick walls lack a trace of personality. It reminds her of herself: boring, bland Vera. Nibbling on her bottom lip, she reaches for the distasteful uniform that brands her a prisoner.

Piece by piece, she sheds off the layers of her old self. She zips up the teal hoodie to cover up the wife beater.

Charged for the obstruction of evidence and the ' ethically questionable ' euthanization of her mother alongside smuggling drugs into the compound, contacting her lawyer would be a moot point. The efficacy of the legal system won't help her now. Simply put: what's done is done.

She unpacks her belongings though few they may be and sits on the coat, twiddling her thumbs. Her heart races madly within her chest. Vera breathes. Inhale, exhale. Slow and steady.

No one wants to see a fragile, little thing. She reminds herself that the women gobble up weakness. Her butterfly wings will be broken if she shows them too much.

On the outside, she hears the whimsical chime of the utility belt. Chains begin to sing. She listens to the fiddle of the belt, undoubtedly an officer's thumbs tucked into the loops.

 _Incoming inmate_ , the radio crackles on the broadcast.

Vera scrunches her button nose. Narrows her stormy eyes and opens the door. It's not lock up, yet. She has time. Curiosity gets the best of her. Her snooping's been a habit that refuses to die.

Enter: the Devil.

Despite going through Hell, Joan Ferguson is let back into Proctor's block. It's an interesting decision that implicates a death wish. A ghost, a phantom she becomes, in the shadows of these prison walls.

She exudes aristocratic arrogance, a smug smirk upturning one corner of her mouth.

As a deer in the headlights would, Vera gawks. She hates how she sees nothing in those abysmal eyes: watching her, gauging her reactions.

Even in the teal, she commands an audience. It almost makes Vera want to reissue her loyalty, to join her, and to stand faithfully by her side. Talk about a magnetic effect.

Joan raises a brow.

Simple, yet effective.

“Hello, Vera.”

The silken purr is a jab as much as it is a greeting.

Vera slams the door to her cell shut. A pity she couldn't coat it in lamb's blood to protect herself. She leans against the wall and slides down, down, down – further into this pit.

Everyone needs a little leverage.

And Joan has hers.

 


	5. Frail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night is always the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, a month later and I finally update this hot mess. Forgive me. I've been getting side-tracked. I have other chapters planned out, but this one was a bit of a struggle. I have to remind myself to continue trucking ahead!

> “The sooner they are burnt up – the better for the roles we have to play.”
> 
> _Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror_ – John Ashbery

An unsettling quietude consumes this once vacant place. Grey-blue eyes trace the concrete walls that contain a life of their own, clammy and cold. They sweat along with Vera's conscience. Small hands mask her tired face. Wildly, her heart beats within her chest. She resembles the breathing exercise that Dr. Westfall taught her.

_Don't think, Vera. Breathe._

And she does, but it's so fucking **hard**.

From stress and worry alike, her brow furrows. After what feels like hours, she struggles to stand. Stares at the laundry basket that contains a pathetic excuse for her personal belongings. Vera lacks the strength to sift through them: shoddy romance novels, a photograph of her aunt and uncle, a journal, a memory of a father never present, her mother's wedding ring. She can't bear to touch her past.

Instead, she sits on the bed. Hands become fists. Loosely, they beat against her lap. Her thighs.

In the mirror, Vera looks wilted. Sweat and tears plaster frazzled curls to her temple, her ruddy cheeks. It's as though she's been soaked in vinegar again.

Reflecting on her life's penitence, she has no one else to blame.

Her head rolls back under the pretense of a ball-jointed doll's broken dance. You can still beautify the broken things.

A knock interrupts her self-pitying ruin. There's a silhouette projected in the thin, ventilated slit. Kaz Proctor wears such a pitying expression.

“Can I come in?”

Vera hesitates. It's too early to choose sides, but she doesn't have a choice. Her sentence weighs on the back of her mind.

_No._

“Yes.”

**Never-mind.**

A toothless tiger folds her arms across her chest, biceps flexed. She takes care of herself, but she takes care of her own far better.

"I'd be lying if I said it gets better," Kaz quips. There's a softness to her voice. She doesn't beat on her war drum or stand on her soapbox. It's genuine. The pariah comes closer and the door remains open a crack, just enough to give them some semblance of privacy.

Here, she plays the role of matriarch well enough.

With a fondness for broken things, Kaz intrudes on Vera's solitude. The blonde sits beside her. The cellblock's pier worker ought to be here, not the Top Dog, even Bridget Westfall should be the one to carry out this ritual. But it's Kaz who serves as a reminder of this harsh reality.

Vera smiles thinly.

“It's... Well, it's hard.”

She swallows her words like a mouthful of glass. Tastes the blood, only to realize that she's chewed up the inside of her cheek. Proctor reaches out. Instinct tells her to jump away. Hungry for a consolation prize, Vera deflates beneath the hand that touches her shoulder. That squeezes her upper arm. She's starved of affection.

“Me and the girls look after our own. We've got you. That soiled cunt's done a number on us all. Don't let her spit you out again.”

Lines crease her forehead. Her cheeks hollow. She hears Kaz's monumental anger. It rolls in waves and could drown anyone, if unchecked. Vera opts to play it safe. Nods.

“Thank you, Kaz. I think... I just need some time to myself,” she says. Each word is chosen carefully. A hand pats the one that hasn't left her shoulder.

And that's when the tiger leaves.

From the opposite cell, the Devil watches on. She knows Wentworth like the back of her hand. The prison is a map that matches the framework of Joan Ferguson's maze-like mind. Pointer and middle finger swipe over the crown of her head, keeping her hair purposefully immaculate. The underside of her jaw shifts; it's the only means of alleviating titanic pressure.

Governor Jackson has appointed a guard to watch over her, but his choice is a mistake that speaks to his impending failure. Jake Stewart is a conniving snake that wants to sink his fangs into the pretty crowns of corrections. Therein lies his fault. The chair is a cursed thing. Joan knows; she uses Vera's failure as a prime example.

“Done yourself in this time, eh? These women want you dead,” he boasts with his thumbs hooked into his utility belt. He thinks he's the cock of the walk. Puffs out his chest in that disgusting display of male bravado.

“I'll put the kettle on,” Ferguson drawls in response, none too impressed by his overt clichés. Her glittering, obsidian stare focuses on Bennett's cell.

When Kaz crawls out, the Top Dog pretends she isn't there. Acknowledges her as a ghost. A phantom menace.

At the offense, her lips twitch.

“--But I don't,” Jake continues. He rocks on his heels, shifting his weight back and forth. He can't hold still. She wonders if it's the drugs. He's a jumpy man despite oozing confidence.

“Oh?” She makes a sound as interjection; she doesn't care. “Have you come to bore me with a monologue, Mr. Stewart?”

“No,” he replies in earnest. Drags out the syllables until it takes on a new meaning. “I've come to cut a deal with you, Joan.”

Intrigued, she turns her head.

Night falls.

Time skips, because every day is exactly the same.

Vera goes to bed with an empty stomach. In retaliation, her body grumbles and groans. She ignores the pain. Swaps it for emotional devastation.

The cot beneath her small body is highly uncomfortable. She may as well lay on concrete. With a light sniffle, she rolls onto her side. Holds herself together. An arm clutches at her fragile ribcage. Her body's as much of a prison as this place is.

In the quiet, still shadows, these tears flow freely. They make a mess of her face. There's nothing pretty about snot and red-rimmed eyes.

Heaving sobs rake through her. Rather than staying awake into the early done, she tuckers herself out, weak and powerless.

This is what it means to cry yourself to sleep.

 


	6. Enth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for brekkie. No matter the side on the bars, there is a choice in prison: be the shepherd or be shepherded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another solid update, finally.

> “I feel dead. I feel as if I were the residue of a stranger's life, that I should pursue you.”
> 
> _The Lost Pilot_ – James Tate

Governor Will Jackson cracks his knuckles. His open, calloused palm cups his reddened fingers. Watery eyes flick to the CCTV. There, he forgets to breathe.

With a crooked smile, Linda Miles looms behind him. Relaxed to a fault, she betrays his tension. Gambling hands fold in front of her waist. Amusement thinly veils her curiosity through a quirk of a brow.

“This is a bloody mess.”

“So, the bitch is back,” Smiles interrupts the silence.

He lets out a prolonged sigh while sinking into the chair: this leather tomb that's a cursed object for every figure of authority.

The threat that is Channing looms in the back of his mind. Hesitantly, he reaches for his radio. Signals for Mr. Stewart to be on his guard.

None of this can end well.

The first wave of breakfast begins. There's a clamber in the cafeteria. This morning, the wolves are ravenous. A pair of less than memorable women bicker over the last strip of bacon, their profanities akin to yipping, nipping hyenas. So it's the call of the wild.

Kaz's barking stops them. The piece of meat falls to the ground. Cracks beneath a tennis shoe's heels. It's a loss cause. No one wins here.

A mouse enters this place. Everything changes when you're on the inside.

She zips up the teal hoodie. Try as she might, Vera cannot hide inside herself. Despite having no appetite, she grabs a tray. This is the stride of a broken woman – tired with nothing to lose. Bags loom underneath her eyes, the manifestation of her restlessness now complete.

“It's _Vinegar Tits_.”

“She looks like something the dog shit out.”

“She's always looked that way, eh?”

And it gets **worse**.

Faint whispers in the background incite her paranoia. Anxiety causes her heart to flip-flop. Her stomach twists. She's not hungry, but she plays the game anyway. Piles the cheaply made eggs high. Fixes herself a hot cuppa with a poorly washed plastic cup.

The other women talk about her failures, her crimes, her former status.

It's painful.

She wonders if Joan felt the same on remand.

Vera glances at the crowd. These are the women that she's corrected, that she's slotted, that she's scolded.

Her grip on the tray rattles. She swallows. Holds her head high. She isn't the wreck she used to be. She isn't the idolizing puppy with over-sized paws anymore.

In a corner, Jake Stewart watches. He smiles at her. She doesn't smile back.

Proctor and her crew sit centerfold. How calm she appears, as though shes always been Top Dog. She waves Bennett over. Pats the empty seat to her tight right.

Red, Right Hand indeed.

“Stay away from ghosts. Sit with us. C'mon.”

Frozen in place – in time – she cannot will for her fawn's legs to move. Her head turns though her body refuses. In the corner, there sits the Devil.

"Two bleeding hearts come together as one, mm?" Joan drawls and ruins the open invitation.

Joan Ferguson acts as if she's in the Governor's chair rather than a hard, uncomfortable bench. The toast in her pale hand remains uneaten. She sets the slice down and wipes her utensils with a simple white cloth. It doesn't purify, but it does the job.

A simmering stare says it all.

No matter the side on the bars, there is a choice in prison: be the shepherd or be shepherded.

Vera Bennett faces her most difficult challenge to date.

Still, Vera comes back to the start. Before the storm.

Kaz's demeanor changes. Like a switch, genuine concern transforms into rage. She's a fury flashing her teeth and snapping her jaws. Open mouthed, she glares. She's the very embodiment of wrath.

"That bitch is a fucking liar, Vera! Surely, you recognize that _hypocrisy_."

Like clockwork, her feet shuffle across the titled ground. There's no liquid to slip in. She kicks aside crumbs and the damned remains of a shoddy meal. Vera contemplates offering all apologies. The glance over her shoulder says enough. The damage has been done.

She knows where her loyalty lies.

Or does she?

They sit at opposite ends of the table, their trays remain untouched. They give into the stereotype of strangers on a train, far removed from their former glory. Quietude washes over them in the midst of scathing stares and spitting venom.

_Now look at what you've done._

“You continue to disappoint me with your poor decision making skills. You’ve defied Proctor,” Ferguson says with a click of her teeth. “She won’t take this... _betrayal_ lightly.”

DisappoinT sounds like a loaded gun.

But Vera can't find the bleeding.

Scrambled eggs turn to rubber. It’s as plastic as her ruse. She tries to pull together what she's learned. Her stormy eyes linger on the tray, on the table, on Ferguson's scarred hand.

That injury, Vera _isn't_ responsible for.

“Well, neither did you,” she quips. When she lifts her head, the fluorescent lighting highlights the haunt. Something eats away at her; something wicked lives in them both, but her heart's still pinned to her teal, fucking sleeve.

Brows lift at the offense.

A corner of Ferguson's mouth twitches.

It's the only indication of human error.

Joan sips her tea.

Vera doesn't touch hers though the temptation is there. Her fingers caress the handle. She doesn't mirror her former mentor anymore.

“Why are you doing this?” The smaller woman asks, tone incredulous. She acts as if she's been wronged.

And they both have been slighted somewhere along the way.

“Hm?” A faint tilt of the head. “Specify, Vera.”

“You don’t scare me anymore,” she says and finds her voice. Sounds strong, but that's a lie. She could be defeated; she's wilted.

For Joan, it's not enough

She needs to be torn asunder from the inside out – to feel how she has felt.

Quid pro quo.

“Every choice matters, Vera,” Joan replies in time. “You, alone, choose your fate.”

The stare down ends. Something wet, sticky, and runny hits her cheek. A brown lump plops onto the table.

_Oatmeal._

Of all bloody fucking things.

With two fingers atop a napkin, Joan slides an offering to her fallen disciple. Again, she raises her brow and wears a kittenish mask for mockery's sake. Vera takes it.

Things escalate. No one is safe and nothing is sacred. A childish food fight erupts at a volcanic rate. Hot tea splashes across Vera's chest. She screams, high-pitched and pained. The Devil gets out of dodge.

Jake's radio crackles.

It's chaos until the guards intervene and separate the former screws from the rest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoever started the "food fight" is left up to the reader's interpretation though it may be one of Kaz's crew. I'll leave that up to your own discretion.


	7. Char

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With tired eyes and a vacant expression, prisoner Bennett sits on the cot in medical.

> “Psychology which explains everything, explains nothing, and we are still in doubt.”
> 
> _Marriage_ – Marianne Moore

With tired eyes and a vacant expression, prisoner Bennett sits on the cot in medical. Tiny, lithe legs swing to and fro, but this isn't for some sweet chariot.

Vera aims to distract herself from the pain. From the angry, red burn that spans across her chest – just below her collarbone and right above her breasts. She bites down on her lip so hard that it begins to swell.

_There will be blood._

Sooner rather than later, she figures.

Technically speaking, this isn't a burn. On the contrary, it's a scald. Nurse Lee Radcliffe, in her infinite wisdom, has informed her of the medical difference between the two.

“A scald is made from a wet heat, a burn comes from a dry heat,” so says Miss Apathy defined.

True, Nurse _Ratchet_ is no savior, but she helps with the bitter sting. She treats the injury without discrimination. Bored, blue eyes implore for the prison-issued hoodie to come off.

Vera's fingers linger on the zipper. In a childish gesture, she drags it up and down before removing the hoodie from her person altogether. For personal comfort, she leaves on the white tank top. From the scorpion sting that procures a searing heat, she hisses. Her belly quivers.

With a cool, albeit damp cloth, Lee Radcliffe tends to the wound. Ice, she explains, will not help in this circumstance.

“You'll live,” the nurse deduces in that same, bored tone.

Vera frowns. Out of habit, her brows scrunch together. Wrinkles deepen. That statement offers no condolences.

“The injury isn't not severe. Some ibuprofen will help with the pain. I'll see if the doctor can give it to you.”

In her skimpy number, Radcliffe saunters off. Still, Vera feels that the young woman wears too much makeup. It's a raccoon mask to cover up some damage, some indeterminate human wreckage.

From the pain, Vera's chest throbs.

A customary knock at the door follows.

The resident doctor of Wentworth doesn't enter. Instead, it's Bridget Westfall.

As per usual, she's dressed to kill in a turquoise number. The ruffled blouse tucks into her pleated, grey skirt. She's cut her hair. Keeps it short in a purposeful, blonde bob that tucks behind the ears.

At the familiar of an old acquaintance, Vera offers a soft smile. Her fingers curve into the edge of the bed. She twists the sterile, white sheets. It's a temporary distration.

“How is Doyle?” She asks.

No malice or mockery taints her tone. It's a genuine question, no poison involved.

“She’s well,” Bridget responds with a faint grin.

This is the camaraderie or two women who have been through Hell and back.

“How are you feeling?” Westfall asks, her concern accompanied by a head tilts.

“I can't decide if I've had better or worse,” Vera declares. Her ponytail loosens though she makes no attempt to fix it.

So much is ruined already.

“I heard about the incident... and your forward approach, Vera,” Bridget confesses. “You shouldn't have done that today.”

When the little mouse looks up, she spies the telltale concern in that sapphire stare. She shakes it off, but she can't. It haunts her like her actions.

“Did I have a choice?”

Vera averts her attention to the thick, plexiglass. The hall remains vacant, similar to her cell. Her tongue strikes the roof of her mouth with a click. It rivals a loaded gun.

“We always have a choice, you know that. Each decision may be a hindrance or aid in our progression. You pave your own path through failure and success. The decisions you make shape you into the person you become,” she says.

There's nothing clinical to it. It sounds akin to an infomercial that harps on motivation.

“I'm... aware that I'm responsible for my actions, Bridget. Uhm...” Quickly, she corrects herself. “Miss Westfall. I don't know why I did that today.”

“You do,” the blonde presses.

“I do,” Vera confirms though she refuses to clarify.

“Being inside Wentworth is different than being on the outside, Vera. You need to be careful. As a friend, that's my advice.”

Ever the portrait of cool composure, Bridget finally brings her hands together – it's a slight gesture, but one that Vera notices. She's nervous. She moves to fix her hair. She's nervous about Vera's well being.

Somehow, that breaks Vera's heart all the more. Her throat tightens. There's a pressure in her neck that feels similar to a needle pressing into her skin, her muscle, her arteries.

Her fingers muster a twitch in retaliation.

“Governor Jackson – _Will_ – and I can't protect you. Whatever awaits you in that unit won't perceive a positive outcome,” Bridget confesses. Her shoulders sag.

There's something wrong. There's more than she lets on.

Vera knows her friend, but she doesn't press.

She isn't the type to seek leverage.

“I know,” she responds in a hushed tone. “I, alone, choose my fate.”

At a genuine loss, Bridget sighs. High heels click as she makes her departure.

“Make sure you have an appointment with me. It'll help with your... adjustment behind bars. Be careful, Vera. We all know what Ferguson is capable of.”

She leaves.

There's nothing else to say.

You can reiterate toxicity until you're blue in the face, but the devoted always stay.

Officer Murphy waits outside the door, prepared to escort Vera Bennett back to her unit.

 


	8. Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble seems to follow Vera wherever she goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shall we finally get the ball rolling on this?

> “Flesh is merely a lesson. We learn it and pass on.”
> 
> _The Buddha in the Womb_ – Erica Jong

A stout guard waits by the door, her ruddy cheeks splashed with a hint of cheap, drug-store blush and a gaudy shade of ruby red. She lifts her brows while she cocks her head to the side, coaxing the sullen lamb out of medical.

“You’re lucky I’m being paid to escort you,” Officer Murphy quips.

Vera sucks on her teeth. The sound procures a trigger _click_. She holds her breath and grips onto the last of her patience.

They walk in unison. With every rise and fall of her shoulders, Vera experiences a sharp, searing sting. The scarlet letter – that terribly inconsistent blotch – serves as a reminder of her ill-acted haste. She pledges her allegiance to the wrong side again.

Distraught, pouty lips form a heavy set frown. The lines crinkle around her diamond eyes. A vein, never prominent before, now pulses in her temple. It matches the rippled cord in her neck. She turns to Murphy, a bite to her bark, her frustrations lashed out at the one least deserving.

“I used to be your superior,” she points out in exasperation. “Are you still taking those unsolicited breaks of yours?”

Out of the Governor's coffin uniform and into the teal does little for her self-esteem, but there remains a shadow of the monster Vera found herself _becoming_.

She glares at Murphy. A tense jaw works out the kinks.

This is the gait of a woman who doesn’t give a flying fuck. Like Smiles, Officer Murphy is here for the steady cash flow and the quick, smoke breaks sneaked in through the extent of her arduous shift.

That snippet of blackmail, however, causes her to swallow. Her fear vanishes without a trace.

“I know what you're doing, Bennett. You're scared. When you're scared, you lash out at others.”

The lump in Vera's throat tightens. She buries her trembling fists in the depths of her hoodie pockets. To the cellblock, she returns.

Seldom does the journey end here. Murphy lets her return to her respective unit. The radio attached to her hip emits a low, steady hum. Governor Jackson's dissonant voice is ghostly. He doesn't sound like a hero, he sounds fucking _exhausted_.

“This is Sierra One to Sierra Four--”

Vera doesn't pay attention to the rest. She watches Murphy turn on her heel and disappear down the bleak hallway.

Invested in the long game, the Devil lingers in her den. The fox has yet to invade the chicken's coop. Patience is her virtue despite the way in which she stalks her cell. Formidable Joan Ferguson reaches for a simple terry cloth and wipes the dust away from her tiny, ticking clock. The cleanliness of her cell speaks to a clinical sterility along with a profound emptiness within.

Officer Stewart smirks. His hungry eyes flit from the boring Vera Bennett to the real meal: Joan. She is the key to the crowns – to his rapid ascension in a prime time Hell like Wentworth. Calmly, he loops his thumbs into his belt.

Men like Jake the Snake believe that they're entitled to devour the world. That everything belongs to them.

How **pathetic**.

Neatly, Ferguson folds the rag into fours and leaves it on the shelf. Tomorrow, she'll deposit the sullied cloth in the laundry. Let the dogs take care of the rest. Sallow cheeks hollow. Every movement is precise, every machination just as deadly. There is a precision to her slight movements.

“Which head are you thinking with, Mr. StewarT?”

He laughs cheekily. He's higher than a motherfucker, riding on the coattails of his grand authority. A wolfish grin stretches tight across his face.

“That an open invitation?”

Joan cranes her neck, her lips flat-lined.

“No.”

She ignores him.

He's nothing but a gnat, a potential pawn to be pushed across the board.

At the rejection, his smile tightens. He looks at the ground, stares at the tips of his boots before lifting his eyes to meet Ferguson who calmly sits on the edge of her bed.

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” He asks.

She doesn't entertain his childish manipulations.

Claws sink into the edge of her mattress, fingers flexed to grasp the white sheets. In the aftermath, her burned hand reddens. Curiosity compels her to look past Jake; his cockiness is a sham, a veil for his insecurities. What a perfect match he would have made for Vera.

“You're not concerned about Proctor?”

Lips purse. She watches a ruckus in the background with the unfortunate mouse falling victim again. Intervention won't occur this time around. Shoulders rise. She offers an apathetic shrug, the gesture a mocking one.

“In all her anger, Proctor remains loyal to her cause. She may lay a hand upon me, but she will not cause harm to my person. She _cares_ about these parasites that call themselves women. To maim me would be... **detrimental** to what she aims to do,” Joan responds. Fingers steeple. They settle in her lap. She acts as though she's seated in front of a desk rather than a pest who's made to hold watch over her.

At last, she rises. Reaching her full height, Ferguson brushes past Officer Stewart. Their shoulders touch, albeit briefly. Though she yearns to sneer at his intrusion, she remains above such systematic pettiness. Her obsidian eyes shine like a knife, sharp and full of intent, while she watches Proctor snap from the confines of her room.

“A hypocrite will always contradict all aspirations,” she muses. “It's time for Vera's medicine, but a question remains. Will you intervene, Mr. Stewart?”

He glances aside, past the master manipulator, to the tiger that flashes her teeth.

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, he stares.

“Fuck me dead.”

Near statuesque, Joan folds her hands in front of her waist. The teal does nothing for her. She imagines the iconic suit with it's knife-like edges. Engaging in this spectator sport, she watches the chaos from afar.

It's _her_ prison.

She has time to take control of the calamity.

Prison is a hell of its own kind. Vera Bennett has come to learn this. Proctor’s dogs, her devoted followers, grip the brunette by her biceps. This vise-like grip promises to bruise. Beneath her jacket, small purple indents vow to appear.

Like a rubberband, Kaz _snaps_. She's all fury and flailing limbs. Back and forth, forth and back, she paces.

“How the fuck could you do that? You made a bloody fool of me!”

“I’m sorry” comes out as a broken, fabricated heart-felt thing. “I’m _sorry_ ,” Vera repeats with a near insistent whine while her foolish, fragile spine hits the clammy, brick wall.

She fingers her teal jumper. For protective measures, the scald’s been covered, but everything fucking **burns** these days.

Consider it a masochistic streak.

“Stop,” Kaz snaps with her red, right hand outstretched, palm facing the smaller woman.

Her forearm hits her jugular. It's enough to knock the wind from Vera's pipes. At the brute force, her stomach plummets. Tears prick at the corner of her eyes. Lashes flutter. Breath hitches in her throat.

Pain is a constant in this place.

Experience remains a brutal teacher.

“She's got you wrapped around her bloody fingers. What are you doing to yourself, Vera?!”

The grip loosens though not by much.

An iron door creaks – bemoans the insanity that is Wentworth.

Out steps the Devil. Her shadow stretches across the hallowed ground. Motionless, she crosses her arms behind her back.

“My, my. Perhaps you should ask yourself the following, Kaz: what are you doing to the women you swore to protect, mm? Whatever happened to the soft girl who dreamt of wild mustangs?”

The tiger lets go.

_She hasn't the courage._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will pick up between Joan and Vera in the next chapter. ;)


	9. Baptism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The toothless tiger bickers with the lioness; a ringleader mouse intervenes. There's a conspiracy in the works...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof... Nearly a month later and I finally find the time to update this. Sorry about that!

> “As if this is a makeshift person. Some person grown without willingness or identity. Thus very new.”
> 
> _Retablo –_  Gail Sher 

“Fuck you,” Proctor seethes from between clenched teeth. “You don't know a bloody thing, Ferguson.”

Explosive, she strings together expletives like they're going out of a fashion. Rattlesnake fists quiver by teal sides. The white straps to her tank top nearly slide from her quaking shoulders.

Made of stone, Joan Ferguson stands perfectly still save for a quirk of her brow. She needn't present her counter-argument. Kaz does it for herself.

Kaz's jaw twitches. It clenches. Her eyes ripple like a river. That emotion gives her away. She cocks her head for the women to join her on her warpath.

“Stop.”

A once diminutive voice interrupts the flow of aggression. This mouse of a woman has had enough. She steps in between. Stands in the center and puts herself under the noxious radar.

Proctor shoots the Devil an electric blue stare. A charlatan has yet to come collect her debts. Ferguson folds her arms across her chest, tall and imposing. Even her shadow stretches across the painted, brick wall.

Exasperated, Vera pinches the bridge of her nose – waves her hands at both parties.

“Just **stop**. You both insist on choosing sides, on maintaining my loyalty, without a single fucking concern for the person in the middle. The two of you!” She exclaims. “--You're _selfish_.”

Wrinkles gather on her forehead. Stress deepens them. Makes her appear older, wiser, and not as kind as she used to be.

Officer Stewart's hand lingers on his radio. It crackles dead static. He doesn't intervene. This makes his job easier.

Mid-air, Proctor's fist flies. She stops herself. Cuts herself short. Waves her red flag hand. Like a sullen child, she bites down on her lip. It could bleed, it doesn't.

Vera Bennett is not a caricature of the silent protagonist.

“I'm sorry; my temper gets the best of me,” Kaz responds with hunched shoulders, taking a step backwards. Tamed by the toe, the tigress makes her retreat. Her heart aches too much for frailty.

_And this won't be the last of it._

Pity twists any feeling, aching heart.

Oh, the shame of it all.

Two fingers form a makeshift gun, aimed at the former Governor.

“Watch yourself. You're invisible,” Kaz reminds her.

Left alone, a single guard looms in the background. He may as well be the ghost to this scene. Standing opposite of one another, they make eye-contact. Vera studies Joan's statuesque features save for the twitch of her mouth. Faintly, Joan wets her lips.

You expect the accelerated Virginia Woolf affair, not the spiteful slow burn. This is the steady decline that promises no closure. They're fragments of themselves, shells of the uniformed officers that once set foot in corrections with like-minded aspirations. They're no different after all.

“Why did you do it? Why did you intervene?”

Incredulously, Vera asks what has plagued her mind from the first moment that Joan stepped out of her dark and dreary den. Disbelief masks her heart-shaped face. This is the shattered faith of a once-believer. Her head cocks from side to side. An ache dwells within her tiny furnace chest.

Calmly, Joan offers her mechanical, albeit satisfactory reply.

“Why not?”

_We keep doing this to ourselves._

Down past her nose, Ferguson watches her former deputy. Promptly, she pivots on heel and turns the other way. Hips sway. The animal within keeps itself at bay. She returns to her respective cell, flicking her scarred hand through the air.

“You don't listen. You never do; you think you're God.”

But Joan doesn't hear or maybe, just maybe, she _chooses_ not to.

Everything about them is caustic. Talk about a razorblade romance. This is the start of some Slyvia Plath poem that contains only a ruinous end. It hurts. It all fucking **hurts**.

For now, Vera lets it die, but her heart refuses to let that be the case.

A small town junkie saunters by.

Later in the evening, she retreats to the bathroom like some small, wounded animal. The newly arrived inmate splashes her face with cold water. Then, hot. The extremes do little to absolve her case.

_Why did she do it? Why did she intervene? Why couldn't she throw me to the wolves?_

A triptych haunts her mind. She hangs her caddy on the side of the stall along with her towel and robe. Layer by layer, she peels off the uniform. It's liberating to say the least. Bare feet land on the tile. A twist of the wrist allows for her to fiddle with the faucet. The water's either too cold or too hot. She can't win this losing battle.

Blunt nails graze her side. She feels the spite of a thousand arrows, but she knows that it's a religious exaggeration. It's only the hammering of her guilt and the ruin of self-confidence. Her stare flicks down to the drain where water pools and collects.

Silhouettes project off the flimsy shower curtain.

A habit of eavesdropping rears its bloody head.

“Oh, the cunt’ll get what’s coming to her.”

Overheard in the showers, voices distort over the torrent. She can't make out faces. Nor does she want herself to be known, but Mephistopheles is bound to lose a bargain.

“She doesn’t run this bloody prison anymore. Who the fuck does Fergass think she is?”

Her back hits the tiled wall. Hot water streams over her. Rids her of the day’s filth.

“--Deserves a proper bashing, right-o. We'll give it to her. It'll be the best thing coming to her. Two days from now.”

Doomsday marks the date.

Broken by orders, she has long since lost sight of the person she was. The person she is. The vein in Vera's temple throbs, as if this is any indication of the telltale heart beneath her floorboard ribcage.

_Where does your loyalty lie?_

It’s a tough call. The riot flashes through her mind. She says nothing. Silence is golden; she doesn't want to give her presence away. Let them assume she's an unsuspecting, generic inmate.

Still, her pulse races in her ears.

The toilet flushes. A sink runs. The door rattles behind them.

Vera sinks down the ground. Nude and exposed, she sits on her bottom. Lithe arms encircle her knees that press close to her chest.

“What am I going to do?”

Her words tumble out as a forlorn sigh.

She looks to the steady spray above. This is her baptism to rid her of the vinegar filth, but even clean, her soul feels dirty.


	10. Deicide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> deicide { n. }: the killer of a god
> 
> Duality tears a lamb asunder. In a desperate, last attempt, Vera approaches the Governor with the news she's overheard. The problem with authority is that they never listen. They never fucking do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in regards to the progress on this fic. I'm at the end of my semester for grad school. Naturally, everything is due simultaneously. I promise you that I'll answer all comments the following week (and I'll be sure to leave some as well!). Thank you for your patience. It's deeply appreciated. <3

> “Like a path I was walking that dead-ended, and now I am alone and lost in the forest, and I am here and I do not know where here is anymore.”
> 
> _The Man Who Forgot Ray Bradbury_ – Neil Gaiman

Every Friday night, Deputy Governor Linda Miles takes a gamble. Her disappearance attests to the fact. Instead, Prisoner Bennett is met with Officer Murphy once more. This time, they do not contest.

 _Deputy Governor,_ Vera dwells on the title and nearly laughs at the audacity of that profound statement. _That's a mistake,_ she thinks to herself. Keeps it under lock and key, key and lock, whatever the bloody hell that means.

Prison is not a TV show. It is hard, cruel, and so very fucking **cold**.

Sweat meanders down her neck, drip by drip. Trembling hands pull tug on the sleeves of her hoodie. Hides her forearms, her slim, girlish wrists. She shivers. A chill hugs her spine, her hunched back. Again, she shrinks into herself. Try as you might, you can never squash old habits.

“I need to talk to the Guv’na.”

Adamant to a fault, she thrusts her hands into her empty pockets. There, she hides the telltale quiver of her anxiety, her nerves that betray her.

A snort.

“You and everyone else,” comes Murphy’s innocuous reply.

Still, Murphy relents. Opens the door to a den that promises a cursed position. Like a dog (isn't that what the guards are? Reduced to a trope, awaiting the command of a superior?), Officer Murphy lingers outside. With the door sealed shut, she won't hear a thing.

“Vera,” Governor Jackson begins softly.

Everything and everyone has come full circle. It begins with a Governor Jackson and promptly ends with one. She feels herself going insane though it's just a thought, an idea, a sentiment.

“Have a seat,” Will asks. Will says. Will demands.

Akin to a lemming inching closer to the cliffside, she obeys. Her flat bottom meets the stiff chair, supported by metal. Knees knock together. From the pressure, they'll bruise. Her bird-cage frame isn't meant to withstand pain.

She has grown so tired of being the silent protagonist, of the doll that's knocked around.

“This is bigger than you, than me, than any of us,” Vera responds, her voice shoots up several decibels. “Have you thought about taking this to the Ombudsman?”

Stress ages everyone. Taking casualties aplenty, Vera Bennett notices the cracks around sad, sad eyes that are tinged crimson. There's a shot of gray to his hair. As much as the Governorship is coveted, that chair is a bloody curse.

Sighing, Will Jackson digs his thumbs into his closed, swollen eye lids.

“For your sake, Vera, I'll try, but Channing's superseded your complaint.”

An obligation, spurn out of old friendship, pledges fealty to Vera despite their change in roles. He feels bad. Truly, he does.

Who is innocent anymore, really? No one. No how.

“-Because he wants her _dead_. If I were in your shoes, Mr. Jackson, I would do everything in my power to keep all inmates alive no matter how **despised** they may be.”

She winces. A frail shoulder lurches forward. There's a pain in her chest, indescribable to a fault.

The scald searing her breast ails her. She crosses her arms, tight over herself, though it's hardly a mimicry of martyrdom. It's an attempt to alleviate the itch, the ache, the barbarity of it all. Still, the healing wound scratches. Her jaw quivers.

She’s meant to get this bloody right.

“Letting Joan into general was a **mistake** ,” Vera declares in the midst of determination.

“Why do you continue to care, Vera?” He presses gently, as dead as this haunted place.

His elbows rest on the desk. Rightfully pissed, he keeps himself in check. That bloody cunt deserves what's coming, but duty is a bitch to quarrel with. Most men would agree.

When did Mr. Jackson become so unbelievably hardened? So frigid? So bent?

There's hardly a good thing about either of them these days.

“Don’t do this,” she pleads, her voice barely above a whisper.

Swiftly, he changes the topic, albeit slightly. It's a diversion from the beast that haunts their minds.

“Do you need protection?” Will questions.

She furrows her brow. In concern, in frustration, they come together. The lines multiply.

“No.”

The mouse finds her voice, now loud and crystal clear. Without another word, she gets up. The chair's legs screech in solemn protest. She has nothing else to contribute to the conversation.

Mum, though a vicious wench, was right about one thing: _people exist to disappoint._

Bowing her head, Vera slips out the door, past Murphy who trails behind, akin to a devastating plague. Her mind's a tangled mess, much like the remnants of her life.

Hoodie up, a figure trudges down that same hall. White tennis shoes catch the dirt. Collect the underlying hurt. They bump shoulders: Vera and this entity.

Jostled, Vera stumbles. She spies a lock of blonde slipping past the veiled hood. There's nothing sanctimonious about teal. She wonders who it could be, but she casts her worry aside.

At least the inmate didn't have a shiv.

“Back in the hole, you go,” Murphy declares. It seems her bluntness remains intact.

_Someone gets off on misery._

Vera holds her tongue. That behavior doesn't suit her.

On the way back to her cell, she exchanges a glance with Proctor. She ignores Joan, all too aware of the Devil lying in wait (for what?).

“It’s not too late, Vera,” Kaz says, as if she's speaking in tongues. In riddles.

It makes Vera's head hurt.

Can no one tell how **exhausted** she is?

Some things aren't worth bargaining. Though forced, she smiles: a thing that all good, subservient women are taught to do. Kaz's thugs trail behind when she returns to her respective cell.

Vera doesn't return to her hidey hole just yet. She leans against the clammy, brick wall, peering at a sealed door. Her crown meets the rough surface, coated in paint that hides a life of crime and punishment.

Animosity leads to preservation, that's what she tells herself. A martyr of the mind, Vera bumbles forward. Every stubborn soul's made a fucking martyr in this lot.

“Joan,” she calls out and the door creaks open. “-Joan, we need to talk.”

Made of marble, made of stone, Ferguson towers over her. Inquisitively, she stares down at her former deputy. Again, they wear the same uniform, but they stand on opposite sides of the field.

Careful.

Those black holes will draw you in.

Vera swallows.

In silence, Joan manages to intimidate, regardless of the teal or a well-tailored suit.

“I didn’t want you to be my white knight, my dark knight, whatever game you think you’re playing,” she rambles. The words tumble together.

With a simple cant of her head, Joan listens. Here and now, she smiles. Thinly. At last, she parts her lips. The Devil dares to speak.

“I’ve refused Mr. Jackson’s request for myself to enter protective custody.”

You do this often. You do. You both do.

Incredulous, Vera stares. The shock comes in waves, crashing over her petite body. In disbelief, she shakes her head. There's a ringing in her ears. Her palm sweeps over her forehead, over her hair, and past her ponytail.

“Why?” She manages to ask.

She didn't think that Will offered that option to someone as loathsome as this mechanical animal.

“Vera, Vera, Vera...” Joan repeats her name three times, a mantra that haunts as much as it resonates. “You're asking the wrong question. Ask yourself the following: why not?”

Her scarred hand, cherry red from Kaz's impulse, slides over the door that closes shut.

Vera stares at the metal, her loyalty divided again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to incorporate meaning into all that I do. Ergo, the chapter titles bear relevance in relation to the text. These lyrics to CC's "Deicide" stand out to me: "Ethics have expired, dissolved to no one's dismay."
> 
> As a forewarning, there will be blood shed in the next chapter.


	11. I Am Made of Chalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontation in the showers leads to an unprecedented intervention. Who would have that glass wedged into a toothbrush handle could be detrimental to one's health?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to get out a few regular updates in the weeks to come. Thanks for your patience! Hope your holidays are going swell. :3

> “Anger and tenderness: the spider's genius  
> to spin and wave in the same action  
> from her own body, anywhere—  
> even from a broken web.”
> 
>   
> _Integrity_ – Adrienne Rich

Exiting H Block, a war plagues Vera's mind. Thoughtfulness causes her teeth to tear into her bottom lip. She whittles away at the inside of her cheek. Hollows out her own flesh. Side by side, Miss Bennett shuffles, strung along by prison bureaucracy.

Officer Murphy points out the obvious that Vera has overlooked, “You coulda kept your own clothes while on remand.”

A strained smile comes into place, accompanied by a telltale sinking feeling.

“I’m aware,” Vera retorts with a tired glance at the woman's god-awful drugstore lipstick. “It... didn’t feel appropriate.”

“Well, go on. To the showers.”

With her caddy in hand, Vera enters the bathroom. A collection of muted voices signify a commotion. A variety of bodies, in all shapes and sizes, are hidden by a flimsy curtain that hides very little. A few of the faces Vera could easily pick out from the crowd. Some of them belong to the Red, Right Hand. The others are here for the mundane task of washing away their sins. Strength exists in numbers.

Startled, the caddy falls from her grip. Bottles scatter and roll across the hallowed, bleached tiles. A hooded figure waves a shiv. She sees the spittle fly from masked features. Joan, on the other hand, stands tall. She remains impervious, expressionless, save for a twitch of her lips that indicates her disapproval.

You’re vulnerable when you’re alone.

But Joan’s more than capable of handling herself. She can take a group head on and remain the primitive victor. Statuesque, Ferguson refuses to move.

“Don't do this,” Vera begs. Her rabbit heart pounds madly against her chest.

The former Governor could shake off women like fleas on a mangy mutt. She could smite them, smell out their weakness, and break their bones. Intervention isn’t _necessary_ for a six foot tall woman who can hold her own.  Still, Vera steps in. 

“Go on,” Joan goads, ignoring the insistence of her former deputy. Regally, she holds her head high. She aims to be remembered with her fate _forgotten_.

Curiosity dictates the moment. A scrupulous brow arches. There’s a softness to Vera Bennett that **cannot** be corrected. Still, Joan sought to mold her. To shape her into something she is not.

Ghosts of the past crowd Vera's mind. Rita’s shrill inflection haunts:  _Even as a little girl, you never had much spirit._

Doyle's words echo along with her racing pulse: _You’re all no different from us. Just wear a fancy uniform._

“This is for Bea,” the hooded figure declares before rushing forward, blade and all. This was not the organized bashing. This was a lover’s revenge gone wrong.

Ignorance could have been such a fine bliss. It wasn’t - _isn’t_ \- Vera’s place to intervene. Still, she acts. Driven by duty, driven by morale, she reacts. Poor Vera wears her heart on her sleeve and that’s not all that bleeds. There is no hesitation, only action.

Into the line of danger, Vera dares to go. There is always a struggle. In retaliation, her small, frail body writhes. She has no pepper spray to use, no baton to hit with. Defense maneuvers are thrown out the door in the heat of the moment. It’s a punch to the gut all over again.

Joan is behind Vera, looming like death, saying nothing. A slight twitch of her lips indicates her disapproval. That sly look vanishes without a trace. You can’t kill a God.

Sharp, hot pain follows. Her stomach cramps. The makeshift weapon twists. How deep, she can't say for sure. She looks at her abdomen and the shiv sticking out. Red blossoms. It stains. It saturates her shirt. Everything is sticky, everything is _ruined_.

Allie Novak lowers the hood. Grief is a powerful drug, a terrible corrupter.

This is Vera’s fault for sticking her nose where it doesn’t – _shouldn’t_ – belong.

Vera's fingers wrap around the simple piece of glass. She keeps it in place. She knows how the story ends should she remove the device. Yes, this is the result of a hasty intervention. For standing between selfish people. In prison, everyone is.

This will kill that and that is that.

Allie staggers back, her cherubic face now pink. She looks as though she’s about to cry, blue eyes wide, but not innocent. Who knew that a shard of glass wedged into a toothbrush could bring about so much carnage?

In one last ditch effort, the mousy brunette tosses her head over her shoulder. Locks eyes with the Devil herself. All apologies, she grins and bears it. Gone is the helplessness she experienced in the riot, replaced by something new – something different, something just as fucking painful.

Dear Vera's fucked up.

She longs to say the following: _I couldn't stand to see you get hurt._

**Pathetic.**

Barely audible, silent among the voyeuristic crowd, Joan whispers what she once uttered to Jianna, “ _No_.”

It’s happening again: the inability to protect.

 **Failure**.

There’s a thud. A thump. A hollow sound that silences the crowd. Vera crumples, akin to a doll discarded when the user becomes terribly bored. Left lying there like a chalk outline, everything turns to black – fades like a movie montage. Vultures drink in the blood and carnage.

Novak makes a mad dash for the door.

No one stops her.

“I need assistance!”

At last, Ferguson raises her voice. She backhands a prisoner that comes too close to the damage. Stupefied, they reel backwards. Back smashed against the tile, the nobody's spine bruises.

Akin to a fallen angel, Vera lies in a crumpled heap of her own blood. Tears collect on her lashes, either from circumstance or regret.

To her knees, Joan crouches. She moves forward, tests her Deputy's pulse, and swallows the fear of there being a risk for _infection_. With her skin clammy, she feels filthy – either from the act, the aftermath, or the presence closing in.

Blood contaminates. She clenches her side.

“Assistance is required,” Ferguson yells. Repeats herself.

But it can't happen again.

One innocent is bloody well **enough**.

Her ribs threaten to crush her organs to a pulp.

No matter her side on the bars, she loses control.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry; she'll recover.


	12. Femen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferguson visits Bennett in medical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be sure to check out chapter 11 prior to this one, as I've updated them a few days apart. Have yourselves a happy, healthy new year!

> “There is a conflict, there is a resistance involved;  
> And being part is an exertion that declines:  
> One feels the life of that which gives life as it is.”
> 
> _The Course of a Particular_ – Wallace Stevens

_Insipid pigs – filthy animals – crowd the bathroom. The women chatter among themselves: a combination of low profanities and murmured rumors._

_Like a rubberband, she snaps. With a single action, her ruse is thwarted. Joan raises her voice._

_She screams, “Get out!”_

_The other inmates are wise enough to oblige._

_Alone, she allows herself to react, albeit in her restricted way. Trembling hands reach for the wreckage – for her former deputy that looks like a doe struck down by a great, mechanical beast. She cradles Vera close to her cavernous chest. For such a slight wound, there is so much blood._

_She dwells not on the mess that stains her tracksuit. Scarred fingers spill through the mess of chestnut curls._

_“Jianna,” she rasps in a low murmur. “-Don't let me fail again.”_

_Isn’t there enough suffering for this tale?_

Flash forward to Officer Stewart. He's the cock of the walk, escorting Ferguson to medical. Since the event, she changed out of the gore-covered clothing and swapped for a new pair. She denied any involvement, much to Governor Jackson's annoyance. His irritation ought to be celebrated as a small victory.

The chain on his utility belt rattles. The snake begins to sing.

“Cat got your tongue, Ferguson?” He asks with a bold grin.

She regards him, albeit briefly. Joan glances over. Affords him no other response. Men like him feed off of an emotional reaction.

“I’ll have my lawyer allocate the funds into your account,” she drawls.

“Now, now,” he retorts. “I’m not after your bloody money anymore.”

Jake's swipe card grants them entry.

In walks the Tsarita of Life.

The nurse spins around in her chair and fusses over her own appearance rather than the well-being of others. She smooths out her white dress. Gives a little tilt of her head.

“She’ll recover.” Nurse Radcliffe’s robotic tone filters through, as if she’s a daytime soap actress. The cheesiness matches her overly made up façade.

Jake grins at her. Lee offers a red-lipped smile.

Radcliffe makes her exit for a few, short minutes.

Even asleep, Vera looks shattered. A pair of handcuffs secure her to the medical cot. Steady breathing indicates the preservation of a life nearly lost.

“Leave us,” Joan commands by solemnly raising her red, right hand.

“No can do.”

By the door, he remains. He maintains eye contact, folding his hands in front of himself.

Her jaw clenches.

Pivoting on heel, this anomaly closes in. Quietly, she approaches Vera's bedside. Though her sleep is soundless, Vera experiences no dreams.

The monitor blips. The IV drips. Things to keep the body alive, but not the spirit.

Her shadow devours a portion of the hospital bed. She leans forward and clutches the rail. Her hawk-eyed gaze sweeps over her prey. In this introspection, the intrusive lights of the medical ward seem to dim. It's darker, drabber, greyer.

Fugitive resentment lingers in her simmering stare. Like the Grim Reaper, Joan haunts. Her ugly, wounded hand makes a fist, hidden behind her broad back.

_Have mercy on me._

With her voice barely above a whisper. She nearly growls. Her body doesn't feel her own. Malevolence brews within her tar black soul; the animal within demands retribution.

“You wanted to fly around in my orbit.”

 _This is the price_ goes unsaid.

Despite all the damage, she reaches out – God's hand lingers mid-air. Her fingers brush back a sweat-drenched strand of hair.

“You are a fool,” Joan hisses, but a hiss doesn't constitute as talk; her voice is a dull murmur, coal for eyes ignited by an unholy fire.

Vera will never know of this. Joan intends to slip out as silently as she entered.

“You care for her,” Mr. Stewart points out, smug about his observation. He thinks he’s found her kryptonite.

He is wrong.

“With all due respect, there is no care in war, Mr. Stewart. We may go.”

Consider this a Pyrrhic victory.

 


	13. Fainting Spells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vera wakes up. Proctor checks in. Novak laments. Ferguson schemes. When will it all fucking end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty sure I've updated a chapter a day at a time... So, please be mindful of the fact!

> “What am I to myself that must be remembered, insisted upon so often?”
> 
> _The Rain_ – Robert Creeley

Koschei's touch resurrects her.

When she first wakes up, she acknowledges the pain. Oh, fuck. It **hurts**.

Bleary-eyed, Vera scrutinizes her surroundings. She’s spent more time in a medical ward than she cares to admit. She dwells on Mum, confined to her bed during her dying days. A sense of urgency causes her to bolt upright.

Vera Bennett jolts fully awake.

Though she seems to have taken on the role of punching bag, Vera is hardly innocent. Her hand flutters to her chest. There, in her brassiere, she stashed the necessary drugs for Jacs Holt and that's not all. Vera’s gotten her wires pretty crossed.

 _I_ _organized the first riot._

Her head falls back onto the pillow. The pain in her abdomen remains insistent - a dull throb. The telltale heart beats on. Gauze and medical tape cling to her quivering belly.

You needn’t know the medical terminology to envision this clinical, sterile scene.

An abundance of cracks riddle her heart. Maybe she’s rotted after all. In her misery, Vera scans the empty room. The handcuffs securing her to the bed rattle. These fluorescent eyes shine bright. How easily they could blind her.

It would be easier, she decides, to go back to the start. To be as blind as she once was.

“How long will I be in medical for?” She asks the neighboring guard who just so happens to appear with a visitor. 

She feels a migraine coming on.

“Do I look like a bloody doctor to you?”

“Your job,” Vera snaps “-Is to address any concerns an inmate may have before reporting to the Governor.”

She bristles. She fumes. Something malignant eats away at her.

A firecracker of a woman goes off. Proctor checks in on the poor, injured lamb.

“I’ll protect you, Vera. I can keep you safe,” Kaz insists. Her palms hit the glass. Bang, bang, _bang_. “Don’t fall into that freak’s ploy!”

“I'm fine,” Vera starts to insist. "I'm fine; I can handle myself."

Too much happens at once.

“That's enough, Proctor,” Governor Jackson commands, adamant in his claim. He doesn't walk with confidence, but the burden of guilt.

In the Top Dog's cell, Kaz spies a sight. With her knees drawn in close to her chest, Allie Novak slowly tears herself asunder.

“Bubba, you alright?”

She brings her hands down her cherry red face. All she yearns – craves – is revenge in Bea Smith's name. Junkies possess a one-track mind, one-track heart, meant to fall apart.

“I’ve done something terrible, Kaz.”

Mother Mercy wraps her strong, sinewy arms around her dearest friend. Proctor holds Allie close to her chest, her hands upon her shoulders.

Novak chokes up. She shows her violence-coated fingertips and sticky, sweaty palms. Karen's eyes light up, electric blue.

“-You're not a killer,” she insists quietly.

In a few cells over, Joan Ferguson sits perfectly still. Statuesque, her glare threatens to cut into the wall. She folds her lying hands in her lap. Her ponytail falls in an inky rivulet down her broad backside. Here, she thinks, thinks, _thinks_.

Back in medical, Will's as awkward as can be. Duty brings his hands to his hips. His utility belt shimmies. The radio hangs heavy on a belt loop. Smiles walks by with a cheeky grin.

Bennett scowls in retaliation.

“How are you feeling?”

_Terrible._

His wrinkles crease. He looks stressed. He _is_ stressed. They all fucking are.

Tiny shoulders quiver. Near caustic, she snaps. She raises her voice.

“I said I’m bloody fine!” Vera tries to extend her hand out to dismiss the concern. Her breathing grows heavy, her irked nature apparent. Ashamed by her outburst, she becomes hushed in her response, “Don’t patronize me.”

For the offense, Will could slot her, but Vera is – _was_ – a friend. He grants her a small act of kindness: **mercy**.

“I should have let her burn.”

Again, Will confesses his saddled weight. He twiddles his useless thumbs in the literal sense.

“Don’t,” Vera starts. Her hand trembles in her lap. She can't hold still. She's not made of fucking stone. “Don’t go down that path.”

Now, Mr. Self-Destruct has the audacity to turn his head. His hero complex whittles away at his soul.

This prison changes them all.

Worn out by the outburst, Vera sighs. The thin, scratchy sheet dips lower. She makes her final demand known.

“I want to see the peer worker.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We catch little glimpses of Vera’s anger in later seasons. I wanted to tap into that curt snappiness. 
> 
> Some of the lyrics to Fainting Spells for rumination: ' I'll make you forget. With the taste of lambskin, the bounty is yours. It tastes like medicine. '


	14. Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion with the peer worker leads to Vera managing to get out of medical. Rather than remaining a passive mouse, she scampers into the Devil's den.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that I've been updating a chapter a day so please be aware! Apologies for all the seemingly excessive character interactions. I wanted to set those up prior to delving into FT since that'll correlate with plot later on. Some of you may rather enjoy the next chapter...

> “My quietness has a number of naked selves,  
> so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves  
> from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons  
> and have murder in their heart!”
> 
> _In Memory of My Feelings_ – Frank O' Hara

Ushered along by a no-name guard with indiscernible features, Doreen Anderson approaches the cot. At the arrival, Vera scrunches her brows. Her nose gives a rabbit-esque twitch. Anderson rubs her upper arm. There's an awkwardness here. Neither want to acknowledge the beast in the room.

Even as a screw, Vera has been kind to her. Doreen shows neither resentment nor hostility toward her. Josh and Nash loom in the back of her mind. She offers a soft, albeit concerned smile.

“How're you feeling, Miss Bennett?”

“I've been better,” Vera confesses, now rid of her former outburst. She swims in the hospital gown. Its fabric scratches. Grates her skin. “Thank you for asking.”

“You wanted to see me?” Doreen inquires. Her feet shuffle. She's desperate to go back to her unit despite the kind consolation she offers.

“I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” Vera confesses. “This must make up for some of it, but I've something to ask of you.”

She whispers her request. Petite hands rattle in her lap.

Doreen's stare speaks in volumes. Despite the judgment, she nods and excuses herself.

“Time to go back to your unit, Bennett. You're to stop at Westfall's office first,” the guard insists – drones.

He contributes to her migraine that she chooses to ignore.

The session with Dr. Westfall is a blunt one – a disruption in the hallway and little else. She sports a faux leather blazer and cigarillo pants to display heels that have no business in prison.

“Joan is going to drag you down with her, Vera,” Bridget chides in that ' _mother knows best_ ' tone.

Back in the teal, Vera cringes. Her skin crawls. She wonders what's happening to herself – what's happening to them all. Again and again, the question remains unanswered. Stubborn lines intensify.

“Are you prepared to step back into that madhouse Ferguson is cooking up for you?”

It's unethical. It's emotional. But that's what they are.

“Bridget, I thought you were my friend.” The strain is louder than the clap of thunder. Her shoulders sag. Her abdomen aches, the stitches taut from the tension that oozes from every pore. “I... am trying to do everything in my power to avoid more chaos.”

“I'm sorry,” she apologizes with a wave of her hand. “I think it's a bad idea and frankly, I'm worried about your well-being.”

They pass like ships in the night, saying little else save for the melancholy embedded in their stares.

Back in H-block, discourse ensues between two banded women.

“You back on the gear?” Proctor holds her face. Kaz forces a bottle blonde to look her head on. She loves this fucking kid like her own.

“Fuck, Kaz!” Allie swears, a trembling mess. “I’m _broken_. I’m gutted over Bea.” She nestles into the crook of her pariah.

“I know, I know,” she sings softly. “But we have to stick together. Ferguson’s the beast in the room and she’s got her claws hooked deep in Vera.”

Kaz's bleeding heart only fuels her Old Testament wrath.

Escorted back to her respective unit, the guard lingers. He clasps his hands in front of his waist. He's one of the unthinking majority – the ones that don't care and only expect a bi-weekly paycheck. Vera cocks her head. Notices that the Devil's cell is open ajar.

Near magnetic, she finds herself creeping closer to the fire, but this isn't some spider and fly effect. She's _angry_. Rightfully so. Without a formal invitation or a single greeting, she slips inside.

With her back turned to her intruder, Joan Ferguson perceives no real threat. Situated at her concrete desk (a far cry from her rightful throne), she folds her journal shut. Neatly, she lines up her pencils. She doesn't budge. Instead, Joan feigns shock.

“ _Vera_ , what a pleasant surprise.”

Prisoner Bennett glares daggers into that Christ-like back. You can’t bandage up the hurt, the indescribable ache, that calls itself broken trust. It’s a no-win situation for them.

Nostrils flare. She takes a whiff. A deep inhale. Smells floral perfume and a hint of trash (re: Doyle).

“How is the Sapphic psychologisT?”

She adjusts her greying ponytail, two fingers sliding down.

“Do you have a death wish?!” The smaller woman fumes in the midst of exasperation. She steps closer.

A thoughtful pause.

“You seem to, Vera.”

“Innocence dies and innocents die. Is that what you want, Joan?” Vera raises her voice. She doesn't back away. Not this time.

At the retaliation, Joan’s lip twitches. Her Machiavellian scheming endures a temporary setback.

She aches for the more pliable Vera Bennett - a willing disciple still green behind the ears, but this new version whets her appetite. Stokes the fire in her belly.

The cobra in the room rises. The little mouse prepares for the squeeze.

Dwarfed by size and magnitude, Vera recoils. The iron door swings shut.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll depart with some of the lyrics from Seed: ' I'll be the seed in your heart. '


	15. Tell Me What to Swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All they have left is their petty games. Confrontation falls short. Old wounds are ripped open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna take a bit of a break with the swift updates. There are a few others pieces I'd like to divert my attention to and I've costumes in desperate need of making. Thanks for all the support and encouragement on this experimental fic. I'll catch up on comments soon. xx

> “Your machinery is too much for me
> 
> You made me want to be a saint.”
> 
> _American_ – Allen Ginsberg

It's an old-fashioned stare down. The ex-Governor looks down; the ex-Deputy looks up. It's not Daniel in the Lion's Den. Yet, this moment remains pretty fucking Biblical. As above, so below. This is how it goes.

The vein in Vera's neck protrudes. She tries to be level-headed though logic and reason have never been her companions; that ball always fell into Joan's court. Her lips smack together. Small hands curl into loose fists. Her heat bleeds, pinned to her sleeve.

“You confuse your wants and needs for my own, Vera.”

Her low, inexorable voice suffocates like smoke. Despite the loose-fitting teal, powerful arms rest calmly by her sides. It's similar to looking into a mirror and spying the distortion that called itself your reflection.

“I tried to tell myself that what you did was necessary. Nothing excuses the pathway you took, Joan. You deserve to be in here,” she fires like a loaded gun. Doesn't pause in between the words. "I tried to rationalize the _riot_. You could have intervened. You didn't. You don't care about people; you never had."

Her teeth clamp down so hard that they may shatter.

Joan has the audacity to clap. Once. A standing ovation for an undeserving role. Her lip twitches. She gives nothing else away.

“As do you. Playing innocent isn't becoming. My actions speak to the greater good. The long game, Vera, is far more gratifying than the immediate response.”

Regret cannot be reversed. Spiteful words are made to be flung like arrows, like knives; it cuts all the same.

“You can’t treat people like they’re toys. It doesn’t work that way, Joan.” She bites down on her words. Chews and swallows the bile.

Time condenses itself into a compact lightning strike.

Sure to bruise, her back hits the wall. Braced for impact, Vera grits her teeth. Thumb and forefinger pinch her jaw. Savagery invoked, this act – physical and domineering – teeters on the brink of deliverance. The brute force of Ferguson is realized again.

She dwells on the slap in medical – of being pushed aside so cruelly while Joan tended to Anderson.

“What the fuck is happening to us?!” Her Judas demands through a terrible strain. Her shoulders hit the metal. More pain, more injuries. Vera Bennett's suffering is paramount.

“You have no _idea_ how cruel I can be,” she rasps into the shell of her ear, as bitter as Arctic wind.

Any concept of personal space is a lost cause.

“On the bed,” Ferguson commands, speaking without skipping a staccato beat.

Duty blows its trumpet. Vera's stomach twists the moment Joan issues her demand along with the release of her jaw. The heel of her palm digs into the underside. She tests her pulse that sings.

Brazenly, she crawls onto the bed. Does this make her a puppet? Or is the game changing?

She spares a glance over her shoulder, her eyes matching the calm before the storm. Kneeling on the cot, Vera's palms coast along the wall. Initially, her head droops. Falls like her self esteem.

Joan resembles a machine: expressionless. True stoicism is an art form to maintain as well as a philosophy to master. Behind her, she falls into place. The weight of the bed starts to sink. It's a capsized ship, much like their former glory.

The pressure from behind reminds her of the riot. The needle. The punch in the gut. The fucking pillowcase over her head suffocating her. This time around, she has no baton. No spray.

A knee wedges itself between Vera's thighs. Retaliation comes in the form of a squeeze.

"You're weaK. You're worthless. You're _nothing_."

Joan drones. The melody is a frightful one. She's a wasp with stinging purpose, an asp that seeks to imbue the final bite, but Vera won't let that happen. The little mouse feels Death loom behind her, pressing her body against hers. Her cheek digs into the clammy brick. Nails splinter as they drag down the wall.

"Is that how you feel about yourself, Joan?" She counters, a woman scorned.

Vera's _furious_.

She bristles. She wants to fight back. She resorts to her words. 

She had an excellent mentor for that.

“You betrayed me,” Joan points out quietly, akin to a child that's been scolded by her father.

Morality masquerades as betrayal. Her hand grazes the wall. She tests Joan: the embodiment of an imposing restraint.

“-For the record, I never posted those photos of the inmate, Jianna Riley, in your office,” Vera continues. She swallows, her throat sore and aching like the scald. Like the stitches tightening her abdomen.

Joan’s jaw sets. Her voice is as distant as a fading star compared to Vera's supernova explosion. It’s happening again. The emotional undertow sweeps them off their feet.

“... _Why_ bring it up?”

Vera swears she hears a trace of agony buried there.

“I wanted you to hear the truth from me.”

And just like that, the lioness releases her titanic hold. Vera squirms. She feels the heat radiating from Joan's body and the way it stiffens, turned to stone.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” Joan cuts her pity short. “Don’t.”

She wants to call her Jianna. She doesn’t.

Still on her knees, she twists her body around.

“I'm sorry.”

Frankly, she's not sure what to apologize for anymore.

She says it again and again until her body falls into Joan's. With ease, Joan catches her, but she doesn't release her prey. Not this time. It's a trust fall exercise, only the definition of trust warps itself into something wicked. Openly, Vera weeps. She weeps and it’s muffled against the iron cage of Ferguson’s chest. Weak fists bang, bang, bang – they collide with her torso.

With a grunt, Joan endures. Gradually, her arms snake around Vera to hold her close. To keep her secure. She looks past her quivering disciple to the clock on the shelve that ticks away rather violently.

Joan holds on until Vera wears herself out. Until Vera rests her head in her lap like a former ghost. Fearsome, impervious Joan nearly flinches from the memory. Hesitation comes in the form of a guiding hand that loosens the ponytail that frees plain, brown curls. Over and over again, she pets her hair.

It's awkward.

It's simple.

It's an act of mercy.

“I _hate_ you,” Vera murmurs, her face pressed against Joan’s burning thigh. Tears stain her cheeks. She looks pretty when she cries, as most women do.

Calmly, Joan tilts her head. Her coal-eyed stare fixates on Mary Magdalene in her lap. She sits perfectly still as if this is the time to await communion.

“... I know,” Joan murmurs in response. Her nails graze the scalp. A single digit runs along the neck she could snap without remorse and down the fragile spine that could break from her Old Testament fury. “Rest, Vera. You've spent yourself.”

Joan's throat tightens as she observes the smaller woman curled up against her, on her like some sort of stray. She should feel repulsed. She should feel indignant.

She realizes that she doesn't know how to feel.

Sniffling, she hates Joan for how weak she is. She feels like a sniveling coward for coming her – for crawling back to the one who has ruined her, molded her so successfully.

Vera, in her frustration and torture, squeezes Joan's lap. She curls up her legs. Somehow, the touch of someone deathless manages to soothe her hollow bones. She falls lax. Sleep holds dominion over her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a rather... heavy chapter. I'm gradually working up to their "unity."


	16. Doe Deer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vera slips out of Joan's cell. Governor Jackson faces the pressure. Nothing ever goes to plan, does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just throwing in some more "plot" to be addressed later on.

> “Sometimes fate takes  
> a needle's path through cloth,  
> looping in and out,  
> retracting its own stitches,  
> twisting like a serpent.”  
>  _Seven Horizons_ _–_ Stephen Stepanchev

Swollen, aching doe's eyes crack open. Rather groggily, Vera stirs awake. A lamb rests easily in a lion's embrace. Much to her surprise, she finds herself still in Joan's lap. Marble radiates a startling amount of heat. Without being fully alert, she kneads and squeezes muscular thighs swathed in teal. She doesn't want to move. Entranced, she lingers.

Due to the outburst, there had been no time for Joan to change into her house clothes for the evening call.

“Did you sit there all night?” She inquires, cracked voice and all.

On her cheek, she turns to acknowledge the Devil. As to be expected, Joan stares down the fine slope of her nose. Her position has changed only slightly with her back against the wall. A scarred hand retracts from the shoulder that tenses once realization hits.

“No. As you can see, I’m lying with you.” A dry remark.

“That’s not what I meant,” Vera counters with a slight frown. Now on her elbow, she props herself up. Cradles her cheek in the palm of her hand. Stretches her little, lithe legs that tremble like a newly spawned fawn.

Neither acknowledge what has transpired between them. Last night remains a stain – forgotten again, just as it has been in the past.

“I taught you to be bold, to be assertive, did I not?”

Sighing, Vera sits up. Loose curls spill over her shoulders. Silken waves frame her heart-shaped face. Even in the gaudy light, she's pretty in a plain sort of way. It grips Joan in ways she can never afford to say.

At least she had the night to run her fingers through that wild, untamed mane.

“No, Joan. From you, I learned what not to do.”

One hell of a woman bristles, indignation pricking her skin like goosebumps. Determined to gain the upper hand, the viper strikes.

“Vera?” She calls after the small woman who's left a cold spot behind. How quick they are to detangle from one another. “Say hello to your lawyer for me.”

A hostage leaves. This is non-negotiable.

Guiltier than ever, she slips out of Joan’s cell.

On the way to a mandatory staff meeting, Deputy Governor Miles smirks.

“Did you hear the news about Bennett and Ferguson? Misery loves company,” Smiles quips to Mr. Jackson on the way to the next staff meeting. Today, she seems more self-assured than usually. Could be the latest scoop she's heard, could be the hearty deposit in her account. “Gay. Called it,” she asserts with a cock of her head.

“I don't have time for this,” Governor Jackson mumbles, standing in the front of the room.

A snake makes himself comfortable. Jake sits down, at ease, a smarmy grin in place.

Front and center, Director Channing whirls around. The tails of his suit struggle to follow.

“What the fuck is going on here, Will?” Channing demands. Scrutinizes. Shouts from his lungs, flying spittle included. Like a rocket, he goes off. “You’ve not one, but _two_ former Governors incarcerated.”

Will shifts in discomfort.

“Bennett is on remand,” he points out.

“Fix this,” Derek scolds. He meanders around the over-sized table. His pace quickens. He jabs an accusatory finger into Will’s chest. Without crank, his heart continues to beat frantically. "Otherwise, the board will have my ass and I'll be so far up yours, you'll regret the day you started your career in corrections."

“I will do my best,” Will maintains.

But it's not enough.

It never fucking is.

He should have stayed out while he still had the chance.

In another room, a lawyer benefits from an inmate's misfortune. Resigned, Vera bites the bullet. She _has_ to ask.

“There’s no hope for me getting out, is there?”

“‘Fraid not, Miss Bennett,” her lawyer shuffles in his seat. He pushes up his coke-bottle glasses. “The evidence incriminates you. However, I could attempt to reason that by sustaining years of emotional abuse, you experienced a mental break.”

Petite hands stir in her lap. She stares at them. Sporadically, her wrist flies. She snaps it. Dismisses what he's said entirely. This isn't entertainment. Nor is this some petty drama. This is her life.

“No. I... I refuse to be a victim of circumstance.”

Her head falls back, her vision lingering on the faults that adorn the concrete ceiling.

Trudging back to his office, Will doesn't expect to chance an encounter with the leviathan. Joan Ferguson affords a victorious smirk. In this moment, she prefers to stand. To tower over a man who she faults for robbing the world of someone so pure, so innocent.

“My, my. You seem a bit worn down, Governor Jackson. I see your impotence remains a constant,” she remarks whilst canting her head.

“What do you want, Ferguson?”

He doesn't bait her. All he wants is a moment of honest-to-God peace and quiet. Instead, he doesn't get it. Like a phantom, she tortures. Like everyone in this forsaken place, she carries with her a hunger and a haunt.

“How heavy is your conscience, mm? You imagined a cape rather than a crown as a boy. I know. I see it in your eyes.”

He hides his face. Paces back and forth before his sturdy, calloused hands settle on top of the leather chair. It's the throne she's fallen miles from. Will swears he spies a spark of jealousy. In a flash, it's gone.

“No one gives a shit about these sick games of yours. You're going to rot in here unless one of the women take justice into their own hands.”

And so, Will can't contain himself. It's in his nature to bite the bait.

She smiles. An eerie silence falls between them. Feels like a canyon. Stretches for eons. Calmly, Joan sits down in one of the chairs. Daintily crosses one leg over the other. Exuding arrogance, she lowers her face. The bright lights consume her proud profile. Shadows paint a skull.

He fights the compulsion to retch, but not the desire for vice.

“If I’m such a monster, why didn’t you stop me when you had the chance?”

 


	17. Violent Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do dreams predict prophecy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My, it's been such a long time since I updated... Eight months later, here we are! I'm still avoiding canon.

> “A mad loneliness:  
> You had to, you had to.”  
>  _The Listener Goes to Water_ – Terese Suoboda

That incompetent lawyer testifies to the failure of the legal system. Drowning in misery, Vera stalks off. She rejected his card (‘Should you, ah, feel inclined to contact me, Miss Bennett.’). In retaliation, she branded him a dipstick. It seems Proctor’s trigger-hair, quick-time responses are rubbing off on her.

A chronic gambler ushers Vera down the hall. She’s in high spirits. All her loses have turned into wins. No more wallowing in a bar for Linda. Now it’s champagne and caviar.

“Do you feel like Judas?” Smiles asks her, amused by the scenario that’s taken a nosedive.

On the way to medical for an examination, her fighting spirit sours. Without skipping a beat, the lamb bleats further insults.

“Fuck off, Linda.”

Smiles loses her grin.

Seated on a cot, the stitches are removed – pulled from her being like a fish being baited. Hooked. The healing skin turns ugly and pink. A scar promises to linger behind. She forgets how much time has passed since the affliction. It doesn’t matter. Nothing is consistent about this place.

Old fear snakes down the nape of her neck. In the showers, she chooses to keep her panties on. Vigorously massaging shampooed hair, her fingers sink into her scalp. Soap suds swirl down the drain. The water had been her sanctuary in the privacy of her home. In prison, it’s a race to come clean before you get jumped. Vera’s seen it more times than she can count.

In his office, Governor Will Jackson holds onto the personal profile of Joan Ferguson. Bleary eyes scan the page, desperate to solve the riddle, to find some piece to use against her. Paralyzed by this job, this life, he stiffens.

No one can outwit the pale rider.

Maybe he is a coward for letting her live.

Maybe he is a monster for thinking about burying her once and for all.

The “True” Governor (Debatable) has perfected the Art of Sabotage. Guiltily, Will flips the file over to avoid her mocking mugshot. He gazes out the window to spy a magpie sweep by.

“Hello, my fair-weather friend. I see you’ve put the kettle on.”

As if on cue, the kettle shouts.

Joan Ferguson has no friends, only pawns to be pushed across her chessboard, only enemies who have done her wrong. Feigning curiosity, she saunters toward her former adversary. Distracted by the plinking of the sink, Vera turns her out.

Fixing a cuppa, she waits for her pisswater tea to cool. The leaky faucet reminds her of the mobile which she slipped past the sewer grate. The destroyed evidence, coupled with Smith’s “escape,” led to Ferguson’s incrimination. She was responsible.

A scrutinizing stare focuses on the mug. Agrippina knows a poisoning when she sees one. Now, with Vera’s bitterness, it’s an internal debacle. In a past life, old Joan could have been mad Nero’s mother.

Irate, she whips around.

“What’s the legal term?” Vera fires away. “Burden of proof? You can’t pardon yourself from your crimes, Joan.” Clarification accompanies an arch of her brows. “I highly advise you stop whatever it is you’re planning.”

The panther inches close. She stoops down to her old pupil’s level, craning her head. Her voice remains low, dripping with sin, dreaming of violence.

“ _You’ve_ kept me here, Vera. I do believe you’ve made yourself a hostage of your pride. My conscience is clear. How’s yours?”

All this venom is hard to swallow. Vera dips her tea bag though her hand quivers.

“We have nothing left,” she declares.

“That simply isn’t true,” Joan protests in that maddening, self-assuring way of hers.

_I have you._

“Then, what do we have?!” Exasperated, Vera exclaims.

“Each other.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

She laughs.

Nostrils flare. Ferguson tolerates neither pettiness nor insubordination from her reincarnated Brutus. Quickly, the viper strikes. Joan corners Vera, her back meeting the wall. She bruises easily, she’ll note in the mirror tomorrow. The v of her bandaged palm presses against a fragile jugular. The laughter stops.

Joan leans in, wet breath scalding her cheek. Lips graze the shell of her ear. She rumbles a low, sonorous purr. It’s the closest thing to a kiss.

“Condemning me seals your fate, Vera.”

Flushed, Vera experiences a nervous flutter in her stomach. Thumb and forefinger pinch her tense jaw. Far removed from a saint, her worried mouth screws shut.

“What was it that you said to me?” The Devil inquires, holding her in place without so much as a struggle. “-Hm. Ah, yes. ‘All the things you’ve done don’t make you powerful. They make you sick.’ Reevaluate your motives,” Joan drawls.

By the collar of her jacket, Joan lowers her despised disciple. As a sadistic form of foreplay, the crook of her finger lovingly dances across her temple. Gasping for air, Vera claws at her windpipe. She shivers in place. Once a coward, always a coward. A pity the record had to be set straight.

Her elbow knocks the cup into the sink. Miraculously, it doesn’t shatter. Vera doesn’t bother cleaning her mess, backing away, shocked by the strange sensation that plays her stomach and dives lower.

“Vera, Vera, Vera...” Joan chimes, her pale skeleton hand waving to and fro. “You and I are alike: you’re as sick as I.”

The doe flees, skirting around Joan. Her presence takes up too much space. Devours the room. Divides and conquers. Before slinking into her cell, Vera glances over her shoulder.

“If you cared for me, you wouldn’t have done that.”

That abysmal stare says it all.

Two women return to their cells. A guard shines a light in their rooms. In bed, Vera continues to rub her throat. Joan hadn’t held on long enough to leave a mark, but she still feels branded. Disturbed by their escalating banter, she falls into a troubled sleep. Vera dreams of Joan risen by rope, erected as a statue with a realistic homage, though something is off about the monument. From a thousand wounds, she bleeds. Calpurnia dreamt of beloved Caesar in a similar vein.

When Joan dreams, in her small hourly reprieve, her childhood home is on fire. Then, the prison burns down. She’s powerless to stop it. How cumbersome it is to have the hours of the night torture her. Only in sleep does she lose control.

Frightened, Vera stirs awake, only to mummify herself in the thin, wrinkled sheet. The cocoon offers no metamorphosis. She becomes neither butterfly nor moth, but a woman confused by her psyche.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from CC's 'Violent Dreams': "Bravely, they pulled her off."


	18. Ornament

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crooked officers take a gamble, solitaire passes the time, and all the foreshadowing seems to have no end in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I had to explain why Joan wasn't on remand since I'm deviating from S5. So, I did that in a few sentences. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

 

> “Having a worst regret betrays your belief that one misstep caused all your undeserved misfortune.”
> 
> _300 Arguments_ \- Sarah Manguso

Dirty gossips take a smoke break at twilight. One stubs out their cigarette, the butt drowning amongst a sea of them. The busted tin bucket threatens to spill over. Dull search lights give the guards a sickly look. Out in the cool, autumn air, they make small talk.

Not one, but two former governors are locked away. As soon as Ferguson was discharged, she returned to Wentworth on account of Bea Smith’s tragic demise. The press know how to treat a murder. Denied the opportunity to be put on remand, she returned to the loose, ill-fitting teal ensemble. The evidence, caught on the CCTV, doesn’t lie.

“Good name for a villain,” Smiles chips in. Russian names are just impossible. She mentions Bond and _Die Hard._  So maybe she’s a bit off. Someone’s been watching far too much American television.

“What about Bennett?” Murphy offers, squat and sour while she takes a drag. “She’s a right piece of work.”

A haphazard shrug. Miss Miles is a self-concerned individual. She thinks about the current emptiness of her leather wallet. While the promotion has given her a significant pay raise, her greed makes her hungry.

“Ferguson’s losing it,” Murphy snorts in distaste. 

Smiles nearly mentions how they both are, but decides against it. She liked Vera. The woman was rather peculiar, refusing to go out and make the most of her miserable life, though Linda could recall when they made a point to get royally fucked up. That was years ago.

“I’ll bet you they’ll come together.”

Coyly, Linda raises a brow.

Officer Brenda Murphy objects. Her thumb swipes at the lipstick left behind on the cigarette. Her lips, too, appear uneven. She quells the dying light, turning the volume on her radio down a notch.

“Those two’ll sooner off one another. Deal.”

The gamble’s discussed, the bet’s set: a few hundred, covering shifts, and taking on doubles for make-believe sick days. They shake on it. Full of dark places, prison is like that.

In the morning, Bennett rouses after a fitful sleep. Small, balled fists rub at her oily eyes. She can’t shake free from her seemingly prophetic dreams. Trembling, she rises from the cot with a sore back. Ironically, she slept far kinder in Joan’s cell after tuckering herself out. The memory causes her to wince. From where her teeth clipped her cheek, she tastes copper on her tongue. The drops of blood caress metallic basin. She twists the faucet to rinse out her mouth. She chews herself up for the apologies she wishes to make. Pink swirls down the drain: gone, but not forgotten.

Brekkie happens quickly. A fickle thing, she chooses sides again. Sits with Kaz’s crew which seems to sate her. She listens to the conversation that goes nowhere, her spoon stabbing at the thick, pasty oatmeal lacking taste. She feels a thousand stares full of preemptive judgment. The women’s eyes seem to scream, ‘ _We believed in you. ’_

In the rec room, Vera tries to keep busy. She doesn’t fancy a cuppa after the most recent episode. At the table, she scoots her chair forward. Worn at the spine, there’s a brochure advertising the new Wentworth after the fire, which serves as a brutal reminder of the change Vera once pursued. She misses the paintings adorning the wall. White hot shame floods her veins. Was there no end to her misery?

A social pariah flips through a magazine, the words refusing to come into focus. Her hair’s done up in a half-knot, the golden tail swishing from each subdued movement. Kaz Proctor does a poor job of concealing her anger.

“She’s a ghost. You’d take care to remember that.”

As if to prove a point, she raises her brows to accompany that ‘I know better than you’ tone.

“You can’t ignore the beast in the room.”

In a pit of vipers, you cannot afford to be vulnerable. The rebuttal drips with defiance. She moves to fix her loose ponytail, a strand breaking free from the hold. At which, Proctor sours.

Vera engages in the game of patience. Solitaire ignores the ticking on the clock. She opens a Marlboro-red carton with split corners, shaking out the deck of fifty-two. Forty-eight, if you’re counting, and she does so, idly wondering about the missing cards remain an unsolved mystery. Seven, crooked lines beg to be flipped over and sorted.

Setting the tableau, she proceeds to build the foundation. The remaining cards are set aside for the stock pile. The act resembles some _mise-en-scène_. Face up, face down, that’s just the play. The Ace of Clubs gives her an easy entrance. Two will follow, the rest is history. Laying out her unlucky hand results in another loss.

Ruin is the impossible habit to break. She flips the cards over, tries to sort them, tries to concentrate. The hateful tread of footsteps reverberates in halls that ensure suffering. A significant drop in the room can only mean that Joan is near.

Joan tents her fingers at her waist, forming a triad for whatever fucked up principle she dares to impose. She observes her opponent before striking them down. Proctor pretends to ignore, the pages of the magazine rustling. Celebrities and advertisement move at an alarming rate.

“You’re losing,” Ferguson comments with a mere tilt of her head.

Left with the Jack of Hearts, she covers the Queen of Spades. Vera casts aside the joker in the deck. Perhaps that’s been her all along. Annoyed, she sucks on her bottom lip.

Loathed to admit the truth, she has lost the game. Out of moves, she blends all the cards together. She shuffles and cuts the deck, albeit sloppily. Her hands continue to shake.

With ease, the viper slips in. She stoops to her former disciple’s level. Her breath tickles the fine hairs adorning the nape of her neck. Taking command, she takes the cards from Vera’s rattling grip.

“I believed in you. A pity you refuse to believe in yourself.”

Effortlessly, she shuffles. Splays out the cards, aware of the game, yet wrinkling her nose in displeasure. The deck’s filthy, a million grimy paws have touched each piece. She’ll be sure to cleanse herself thereafter.

Mustering the courage, Vera spews an old proverb. Her eyes refuse to meet Ferguson’s, her attention lingering on the brochure that she pushes aside.

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”

Betrayal cuts in the same way a hacksaw violently exposes marrow and bone, bone and marrow.

Kaz slams the magazine shut, refusing to advance, but now mindful of the conversation. Governor and Deputy ignore her.

Joan feigns a sight, more perturbed by the dishonest deck of cards. They lack order. She vows to remedy that the next time she pays Governor Jackson a visit.

“I’m disappointed in you, Vera,” she tuts.

It churns her stomach. Disappointment has an ill effect on the mouse. She ruminates on her failures, hearing Mom’s nagging voice in the back of her head. With hunched shoulders, she starts the game again though her focus is non-existent.

The entanglement of their desperate lives amounts to constant confrontation and quarreling. She wonders what war Joan of Arc chooses to wage this time.

Vera covers the Ace of Hearts with the Two of Hearts. A lucky hand this time.

“I don’t know who I am half the time,” she mumbles, wondering just where the fuck the shy, timid Deputy Bennett went.

“Don’t lie,” Ferguson snips. “It’s not very becoming.”

She pats Vera on the shoulder before making her retreat. The faucet spews water hot enough to blanch her skin.

In another room, the game of pool is neglected.

Allie spins a billiard ball. The eight ball ventures in mindless circles. Her wilted hair caresses her cutting cheekbones. She places the piece into her palm. There’s a weight to it, she realizes. Her stinging eyes ceases all tears. The face of a cherub betrays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some parting lyrics from CC's "Ornament": ' Ignore all the things I'm obliged to. I'll spend a century to console you. '


	19. Wrath of God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scrabble in the yard cuts into the vein of violence. Horrified, Vera attempts to put an end to the chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of the story, I will not have Franky return to prison. However, some events in S5 will make an appearance in the plot such as the attack in the exercise yard (05x01: Scars).

> “There is something hungry and rough in them, a brutality boiling in their blood, which I have seen before and can smell as an animal that is being hunted can smell.”
> 
> _The Testament of Mary_ \- Colm Tóibín

Mid-day, the inmates are granted the pleasure of savoring fresh air. In a discombobulated line, they march towards the exit that promises a temporary respite. A stormy stare nervously flits about the narrow corridor. A body brushes against her own, warm and full. Pier worker, Doreen Anderson, comes into view. As if she’s guilty of another crime, she keeps her hands stashed in her pockets. It’s evident that speaking with Vera causes discomfort. Anderson counts down the days until she’s reunited with her beautiful boy and Nash.

“Be careful,” Anderson cautions. “She’s a bloody headcase.”

Vera’s nose scrunches. The mere presence of this woman connotates painful memories: the slap, the shout, the denial, the refusal. A migraine gnaws at her temples, the warning reverberating from within. She tells herself that this isn’t jealousy, but unrest. Teeth whittle away at the inside of her cheek. The defense of Joan Ferguson falls on the tip of her tongue.

“I advise you focus on your impending release, Anderson.”

Visibly, Doreen recoils. Calls her ungrateful, no doubt. It comes out far more bitter than she intends.

No longer is Vera impressionable. She cannot be manipulated by other women. This is her mantra, her sworn oath. No matter what is said and done, her words will be misinterpreted. Rats in the walls spread their disease, their slander, the myth and rumors in this infernal place. Once outside, Bennett spies Smith’s ragtag bunch loiter near a bench, as if death-wishes and gossip are a picnic. The petite woman is ushered along by Proctor’s devotees. Her loyalty torn, she stands with them.

A villain makes her debut. In the ill-fitting sweats, Joan passes the memorial celebrating Bea Smith’s tragic life. Dozens of roses cling to the fence, ribbons and photographs flopping in the wind. Disgust curls her upper lip. In the background, a lover grieves.

The mere sight of her is enough to drag Vera’s heart across the concrete. Acknowledging her surroundings, a coiled serpent slithers across the yard. Beneath the surface, she bristles. This is her kingdom now debauched. Her skin hardly fits her demon soul. She surveys the condemned, her gait the same, as if she wore the Governor’s uniform. A ghost, Wentworth’s Top Dog labelled Joan Ferguson. So a ghost she remains.

In all her fury, Kaz recalls Joan’s whisper into the night: “I’ll never leave you.” Only in a coffin will she leave them be. The toothless tiger sneers, her arms crossed over her chest.

The sun hits Joan’s face much like the steam from the press. That broken doll lowers her hood, golden strands of hair oily and limp. Akin to a mace, the ball in sock dangles within her closed fist. The bottle blonde strikes with sudden movement. As a whirlwind of force, Novak swings prior to lunging. Excused by the mercy of self-defense, the logician casts aside reason.

Boomer takes a stand, only to get stricken down. Birdsworth, for all her maternal compassion, stops her dear friend from making a regrettable mistake.

Novak strikes with the bite of a newly fanged kitten. An anguished, bloodcurdling scream beckons a bone-chilling silence. Pivoting on heel, Joan confiscates the makeshift gauntlet. She flings the weapon aside, the billiard making its departure. Effortlessly, she deflects. With Samson’s strength, she retaliates. In a mirror act, she gives the woman what they want, what they crave. Age doesn’t hinder her. Years of fencing enable Joan to move swiftly. The stronger and crueler, the better. Ferguson advances. One hell of a woman vies for direct elimination.

Pandemonium breaks out. The way the women lunge forward, one after the other, resembles a pack of hyenas picking over a kill. Filthy animals who want their pound of flesh.

Canceled out and rendered obsolete, Vera plays the role of petty voyeur. Joints lock into place, her body frozen.

Sonia Stevens mirrors the emotions of her established allies. Sadistic intrigue lies beneath the surface. She tilts her head, emeralds gleaming in the cold light of day.

On the ground, Novak curls into herself. Her muscles scream for relief, her body bound to be bruised. She gives herself a temporary reprieve. If at first you don’t succeed, try again. Try, try again.

Little puppets sealed behind iron bars have the audacity to retaliate. It’s downright dirty, full of choking, hair pulling, and frenzied claws. Typical of their kind, Joan surmounts.

Officer Murphy reflects on the gamble with Linda. Mindful of the current antagonistic development, she steps forward onto the green.

Veins beneath her skin hiss and shift. Still in the ring, she doesn’t disengage. With all her might, she fights. Blocking her opponent, her forearm sails forward. Legs bent, she’s quick to move. She utilizes a feint to provoke an assailant. Broad shoulders flinch, her stance on the offense. Her second intention acts as a cunning machination.

“You can do better than that,” Ferguson admonishes.

She knows the enemy just as well as she knows herself.

Bodily contact resembles **corps-à-corps**. She has no foil in her possession. The attacks alternate. High outside, low outside. High inside, low inside. There are no blades, but the terminology keeps her grounded.

“Now that’s what I call a little Old Testament wrath,” Stevens remarks, her overly injected lips curled into a smirk. The reference zips over Boomer’s head, the confusion eminent in her blank stare. Violence, however, calls to her. Howling, she raises a fist in the air

It’s an eye for an eye now. So, Allie tries once more. You’re irrational when you grieve. She fights dirty, the way the streets taught her, the way Marie Winter showed her. A fist yanks out the ponytail. From behind, she claws at Death’s skull. From exertion, Joan grunts. Tormenting Novak in the spirit of Spiteri would reap far more pleasurable rewards.

She elbows one woman in the abdomen. The heel of her palm breaks a nose. Cartilage snaps. Blood streaks her cheeks, a damnable badge of honor. Teetering, Ferguson seems to be a tree on the verge of collapse.

“Someone put an end to this,” Vera demands. Nimble fingers sink into the chain-link fence. This side of Joan frightens her more than she cares to admit.

Prisoners hunger for more, jeering and cheering, the mob mentality taking its toll. The uniform is ripped from her shoulder, the bra strap exposed. She grips the pathetic underling by the arm and casts them down. There’s a horrid _snap_.

Too damn painful to watch, Vera cringes. The right of action pulls her body from the bench. With a penchant for shrinking into herself, she finds her voice though it’s horribly shrill.

“Stop it!” She cries aloud. One of Kaz’s crew holds her back by the sleeve. In that vise-like grip, she struggles. “Stop them!” She tells the guards but they’re ignoring the mouse. Maybe she’s the ghost in the equation.

A crimson rivulet trickles from one corner of her mouth, her raven's maneflowing and ragged. She grits her teeth. She imitates what they give her: it’s the only way they’ll learn.

Three punches accompany a feral cry. Novak, echoing that number, lunges for the final time. Her forearm finds the throat of her villain. She squeezes, but it isn’t enough. She’s _weak_. Novak offers nothing of value. How pathetic.

Jess Warner’s fate repeats itself. Sullied trainers dangle an inch from the ground. She gasps, she wheezes, baby blues bulging. Clytemnestra on the killing field casts down that degenerate starfucker. Novak gasps for air, her windpipe crushed. A powerful hand squeezes. She witnesses the young woman kick, flail, and thrash. A headbutt knocks her out for the count.

“No!” 

Kaz lets out a bloodcurdling scream. Rushing in whilst flanked by her devotees, she kneels by dear bubba who gasps like a fish out of water. Cradling the closest thing to a daughter that she has, she acts as Allie’s saving grace.

In the chaos, Vera wriggles free.

“Who’s next?!” A dictator-to-be bellows. “Come on!”

No one dares to challenge the madwoman with her arms outstretched. She circles the yard and asserts her dominance.

Victory is important to Joan. Vera compares that brute strength to a black bear, a panther, a lion. As a warlord decorated in blood and death, inevitable hubris seems to be her demise. Spittle flies. Vile evil lives within. The warlord bellows her cry. Gesturing to herself, she roars. All the while, Vera thinks with a hand pressed to her chapped lips, ‘This isn’t Joan.’

Bodies litter the yard, inmates on their hands and knees, on their backs, on their stomachs. This malevolence marks the start of becoming unhinged.

“Code Blue in the exercise yard,” Murphy radios in.

Straying from the sidelines, Vera snatches the radio from her, her thumb hitting a button. It could cost her, it could slot her, but fuck if she cares. They’ve both come undone.

“Stop this at once, Mister Jackson,” Vera pleads. Earning a firm slap on the wrist, she’ll pay the cost later.

Knuckles coast along Ferguson’s jaw. The sick, twisted parts of her feel an ache, a need. Her blood and saliva hit the ground as an unholy offering. Joan, charlatan that she is, offers her final sermon, pointedly staring at her fallen disciple.

 “I will remove any and all obstacles in my path. Will you stand in my way?”

Helpless, the lamb is taken back to the riot, the reminder of the needle caressing her throat. Murphy restricts Vera as if she’s determined to flee the scene of the awful crime.

Finally, the guards act. Clearance granted, ants storm the yard. All prisoners return to their cells Detained for inflicting justice, Ferguson returns to her old self, cool and collected.

In hospital white, a condemned woman sits on the cot. Maroon splatters her face, specks of blood flaking off. She feels unclean after such obscenities. Removed from the Governor’s uniform, she seems smaller, merely a few inches away from Derek.

“You must be so proud of yourself.” Derek sneers, a modern Cassius

“Very.” Joan quips.

He’s an insignificant pawn in the grand scheme of things. Holiness incarnate turns with a smirk. When two God complexes mix, it's never a good thing. Oil and water surmise their relationship.

“Do us a favour and fuck off, Joanie. You’re better dead.”

A glare is conjured up from the deepest Circle of Hell.

“Gather facts before you make accusations, Derek. Four prisoners put themselves in medical. They acted me without provocation, might I add. I merely acted in self-defense.” A splayed hand on the chest for emphasis.

“That noose is getting awfully tight around your neck,” he assures her. He makes no promises, no compromises, the same as it’s been for every released woman to enter his brothel.

When that volcano of a man exits the room, she reaches for a cloth to wipe away the dried flecks of blood. She scrubs far too hard, the ache causing her to wince, as she nurses her wounds in solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To conclude, here are some lyrics from Crystal Castle’s “Wrath of God”: ‘ Contravene loyal ties. ’


	20. Plague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Governor Jackson and Ferguson have a chat. Once released, Joan slips into the library, only to find her former disciple there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember to read Chapter 19 before this one. I (briefly) decided to reflect on Vera’s Hep C status. The last time that I can recall I had written about it was for my one-shot, “Sick.”

> “A devil crutch as we (clutch) ourselves.”
> 
> _Broke Aide_ – Gail Sher

A weak-willed woman curls into herself. She nudges against the womb of another, desperate for affection for an ounce (a dose) of strength that Allie Novak sorely lacks. Whimpering, she ignores neither the loss of her beloved nor the ache of her injuries.

Proctor pities wounded birds. Seated on the cot, she rests dear Allie’s head on her lap. She soothes the way her mother used to – before her mother blamed her for everything. Her fingers comb through the mess of gold. Saltwater tears splash her sleeve. The rough pad of her thumb brushes away the rest.

“Oh, bubba.” She tsks.

Swallowing thickly, Kaz recalls the venom she spat at her mother in the last visitation: _Self-pity disgusts me._ She lets Allie wallow in it. This is the medicine she needs.

Deputy and Governor pass like ships in the night. Saddled stress along with excessive exercise tense Will’s shoulders. His forehead creases from his regret. He feels fidgety, restless in his own skin, and in the uniform that he nearly suffocates in.

“How is she going? I have never known Joan Ferguson to be _reckless_.”

“You expect her to twirl her moustache?”

Smiles offers a blank stare, accompanied by the toss up of her hands. With a shake of her head, she makes her sleuthing exit.

He chews on his cheek, bites back a grimace, and visits the fuel to his self-loathing. Almost comically (or even mockingly), she filed a _humble_ request for a number two pencil. He presumes that it’s to address a letter either to her lawyer or to manipulate some other poor fuck.

In this cramped room, he breaks into a cold sweat. Tree trunk arms sway against his sides. Folds them across his arms in a swift movement. He chooses to appear stern.

“Care to explain that act in the yard?”

“Self-defense,” she jeers. Her tone drops to a near-conspiratorial level. “I am not the monster they make me to be.”

“Your actions contradict that sentiment.” Blunt to a fault, he points out his side of the truth.

Her primal stare drops to her hands that stir within her lap. Her palms spread out the starchy fabric that covers her thighs. It irks her that the number isn’t tailored, conformed to her laser-sharp resolve. She grants him nothing save for a swift maneuver in conversation.

“A pencil does not qualify as a sharp, _Governor_ Jackson.”

She spits out the tarnished title.

“Considering your actions in the yard, I beg to differ; you’re a threat, Ferguson.” He tries to appeal to order and reason when, really, the whole scenario reads as two sides that do not add up.

The cadence of her voice takes a sinister turn. She drips malice.

“Then, bury me.”

Unnerved, Will backs away. Leaves her there until her eminent release back into general. The other guards can deal with her for now.

Little between them has gone to rest.

Behold the waning heroic consciousness of Will Jackson. He goes home to drink a copious amount. The coke doesn’t help. It keeps him wired, paranoid, and strung out come dawn.

In the library, Prisoner Bennett finds a moment of solitude. Secondhand books sparsely litter the shelves. She pushes along a rusted cart. Its mechanical wheels groan in protest. As is the case in most aspects of her life, she struggles. Her fingers trail worn, shriveled spines. One by one, she puts the books away. The weight of her body drags her along.

Idle woes preoccupy her mind. Vera can’t place the source: anger, hostility, the anxiety of fate’s reversal. She doesn’t know, she’s no Bridget Westfall, but she likes to think that she knows the women well enough.

No amount of sorting will justify the violence shown on the yard days prior.

_What is wrong with me?_

Vera occupies a seat at a rounded table, just one of many. She keeps herself occupied with the company of James Joyce, the writing incredibly dense, but a viable distraction.

Formerly locked within a holding unit, Lazarus rises from the dead. In the wrong light, she seems downright biblical. Vera dog-ears her copy of _The Turn of the Screw_. A thick lump of worry knots within her throat.

“You’re out.”

Without tact, she deadpans.

“Lacking finesse, I see.”

They talk as women are wont to do. Steadfast in her ways, the serpent slithers her way over.

A drumming sound pounds against her temples. She spies the old wounds begun to heal. The motley of bruising yellows. In thought, Joan’s knuckle kiss the imprint left behind. Oh, how it stings. Crackles red like a blazing fire sent from perdition. Let it hurt.

Each person in prison compartmentalizes their self-loathing.

“Maybe I deserved it. Maybe the women needed to get it out of their system,” she reflects.

The wistfulness sounds off. The once-upon-a-time Deputy jots it off as concern for the mortal coil, but she falls into old habits. A pain clutches her heart. Maybe Joan’s hold remains that bruising.

“Don’t,” Vera starts. “This is not you.”

Thin lips tighten.

“Oh, my dear Vera, it _is_.”

 _Is_ hisses, the syllables dragged out.

Apologies hang on the tip of Vera’s tongue.

Joan sits beside her, the way they used to. Aspiring to comfort, Vera’s hand searches for her thigh beneath the table. A pat of solidarity, nothing more, she assures herself.

The same, old desire cripples her. In the presence of men, Vera feels awkward. Uncomfortable. Alienated from testosterone-fueled lust, she experiences a steady thrum to vanquish.

Old hope familiarizes itself. Perhaps it’s all been sorted. Yet, a life of misfortune grants perpetual disappointment. Barbed wire pricks. Joan deflects.

Regrets latch onto her curved spine. Vera has quit her prayers at this cathedral blotting out artificial light. As a shell of her former self, she reaches out. Outstretched arms and splayed fingers cause Joan to evade as opposed to reciprocate. That hollowness - that hunger - whittles away from the inside out.

The past looms over their head like a needle to the throat. Given her Hep C status, Vera had been prescribed a direct-acting anti-viral medicine before her plummeting fall from authority. Taken for twelve weeks, the tablets provided few side-effects though her stress levels helped very little in the matter. The DAA medicines guaranteed a cure within 90-95% of those infected. For once in her life, Vera had been **fortunate**.

–But Joan knew none of this.

“Is my tainted blood too much for you?”

Mistrustful ghosts haunt her tongue.

Unable to rationalize her feelings, it’s not the immediate gesture of rushing into the arms of another. Courage leaves circles under her stormy eyes. Perhaps it’s the ill glow of the waning bulbs or a lack of sleep. This out of character display compels an urge to burn all bridges.

One snap is all it takes to knock Joan down a peg. She’s not the Devil now. Rounded shoulders flinch. Visibly, she recoils from the verbal strike. Fragmented memories brew. Each woman offers her recollection of the dinner gone wrong. Joan buried the pain deep in a hole that can’t be found.

“No, no, no. That’s not true, that’s not true,” she parrots.

In a last-ditch effort, Joan reaches for Vera’s hand and holds on with a fiery intensity. It feels like her bones could snap. She struggles. Vera Bennett doesn’t grovel anymore. She offers a scalding glare, writhing beneath that touch. Her knuckles flex, but Joan refuses to release her.

Everyone takes her for granted. Once, Joan did not.

“So, you’ll touch me now, but not then?” She presses, her arm falling lax as a pale thumb caresses her wristbone.

“I required total cooperation.”

(Re: loyalty)

“I am _not_ your voodoo doll,” Vera counters, drained from this subterfuge come to light. “You cannot treat me like some pawn in your game. I am a person, the same as you.”

This wound-up hare settles down. Beneath Joan’s grip, she finds herself sedated. The vise-like hold loosens though the hand upon her own remains.

That black-eyed stare remains void of feeling.

In her voice, Vera hears the truth, hushed while uttered in a gravelly timbre.

“… I know.”

Vera brings her free hand to rest on the crumpled, teal sleeve. She remains.

Joan is no different from the needle that warms to her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some parting lyrics from CC’s “Plague”:   
> ‘ I need you pure, I need you clean.  
> Don't try to enlighten me.  
> Power to misconstrue, what have they done to you? ’


	21. Pap Smear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bridget Westfall has two appointments today: two sessions with two ex-Governors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I refuse to give up on this and let it die... Though updates will occur at their own pace.

> “It always comes back to you  
>  Boils  
>  Circles  
>  Itches  
>  Its way back to you.”  
>  _Milk & Honey_ \- Rupi Kaur

After the library, she cleanses her hands. Scrubs them clean with nuclear, hot water. Nail scrape, exfoliate, the skin. Claw at tendons and veins. Suds swirl down the gleaming, metal drain. Joan scratches her joints, her knuckles, her freckled skin until it throbs. Thrum, thrum. Thrum, thrum. A tuned violin, she loses herself to the motion.

The harsh stinging distracts as much as it alleviates. A half-hour passes. The water stops running. Her skin prunes and is abruptly dried by a fresh, steam-pressed linen. Held up to the dim glow of the light, she assesses the damage inflicted. They’re especially pink today, old injuries included.

_Enough of that, there’s work to be done._

So she buries this: an undertaker in the pitch black morning.

A guard escorts the Machiavellian to her appointment. From her peripheral vision, Joan assesses the stout woman who could be mistaken as her at only a poor, foolish, blind glance. Brenda Murphy reeks of laziness and illegal smoke breaks; the latter of which she can use to her benefit.

“What makes you tick, I wonder,” she drawls.

Officer Murphy remains unfazed, past the point of giving a damn.

“A paycheck.”

Ponytail swaying, she tilts her head. Gives away nothing save for a raised brow.

“Concise.”

“Someone’s got to be,” Murphy offers with a shrug before stepping aside, her back to the wall, adjacent to Bridget Westfall’s office. “I don’t get paid for Shakespearean monologues.”

“Ha.”

In saunters a woman few look forward to. She represents the end of the road. A monolith for fatal finality, her shadow swallows half the room.  

As a forensic psychologist, Bridget involves herself in criminal and civil matters. She believes in the healing process: a means to cope with the trauma and the unfortunate hand these women have been granted. However, that doesn’t make her naïve. She conducts evaluations and assessments alike.

The radio in her office plays a Stevie Nicks ballad, muffled over the shuffle of papers and the whimsical chime of her bracelet. “Leather and Lace” remains a favorite. Sea blue eyes study the file before Bridget takes a stand in this twisted Western showdown. 

The clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks. There exists a burning within Joan’s eyes. Bridget feels the surging heat and nearly suffocates from the intensity; she folds her arms, her blazer’s navy sleeves rising a mere fraction. This forensic psychologist is no Virgil to guide another lost poet (or ex-Governor, for that matter). No Beatrice awaits her in Paradiso; Jianna doesn’t speak to her: her ghost but a memory. Problems aren’t solved in this session.

Her stare pierces as much as it ensnares, trapped in tar, sticky toxicity. This isn’t some story about salvation or fixing.  Some machinery is difficult to handle.

“Take a seat, Joan,” Bridget says, no-nonsense, tired and trying to hide it beneath her foundation, her blush, her fuck-me pink lipstick.

Ferguson snorts, a beast no longer tamed bytailored suits. She detects an unbecoming scent: a hangover before noon. Circling the blonde, she looks her down, past the slope of her nose. She inhales deeply, as if she can detect Westfall’s pressed, groomed layers.

“Drowning your sorrows in cabernet, Miss Westnull?” Ferguson croons, dark eyes aglow with a malicious glint. A cunning mouth spreads deception. “Not everything with Doyle is peachy keen, is it?”

Maintaining the upperhand, she takes a seat in a gaudy, overstuffed armchair that celebrates art deco.

With a frown, Bridget tucks a curved strand behind her ear. She keeps her distance in a seat of her own, back straight. Her hands, repressing a quiver, reach for the board and paperwork. On the defense, Westfall crosses her legs. She hooks them by the angle, one heeled boot dangled a few, precious centimeters above the carpet.

Franky waits for her back home, she hopes.

Joan’s witticisms keep everyone at bay, at an arm’s length, just enough distance to manage all these tarnished pawns.

“We’re not here to discuss little, old me.” Calm seeps into her rigid, small body. A white camisole peaks out from under her pressed blazer, contrasting her honeyed skin. “How are **you** adjusting, Joan?”

Thumb and forefinger pinch the cuff of her sleeve. She admires how Bridget holds herself together. A childhood riddled with anxiety, tension, and over-expectation allow for her to see through the ruse, to keep her guard up. _Poorly_ pounds against her cheeks and rattles her tongue. Instead, Joan of Arc aspires to set a plague upon Wentworth.

Miss Westfall seems intent on placing Ferguson into a psychopathic mold. Her messy, golden hair falls into her face, a sunken halo in the making. A gleaming, initialed pen hits the clipboard. Tap, tap. Scribble, scribble.

“Scoring again, I see.” Deflection comes naturally. Ferguson isn’t receptive to colossal wastes of time. Scarred fingers twirl her blackbird mane. It’s a childish expression, a grand gesture of rebellion. “You are a mere board appointment. It was Vera’s folly to keep you as staff.”

This infuriating woman luxuriates in an imprecise field. Every theory she’s learned, she treats as fact. Westnull dismisses her as a fairy tale villain, a cunt. Everyone does. With a penchant for wicked games, she carries on.

The pen lays flat on the clipboard. 

Fingers splayed, she inspects her nails before picking at the lint latched onto her hoodie. She hums a symphony few recognize. An artistry underlies the current of her machinations. 

“I am not a figment of _your_ imagination, Joan,” Bridget counters. A flicker of anger simmers; Joan Ferguson will not get the better of her. She takes a deep breath to calm herself. A passing glance is afforded before she sets aside the paperwork, face down.

No one looks flattering in teal.

Though it stings, this doesn’t leave a chip in her armor.

“I see that you’re flesh and bone, that you’re as incompetent as the current rota of staff,” she drawls, voice clouded by condescension.

Bridget smiles icily.

“My purpose is not to be your proverbial punching bag. Your… rebellious demeanor indicates that you are coping rather poorly. You seem remised over the loss of peerworker Anderson.”

Daedalus’ masterpiece of a statue stiffens. It’s a low blow and it shows, doesn’t tell. Marking the end of an era, Doreen Anderson soon finds her freedom. Her connection to Anderson had been an optimistic alliance, a hopeful friendship, a muddied confusion of stacked complexities. The space between her lungs seizes, clenches, _hurts_. She swallows thickly. Joan carries a locked room for Jianna inside of her. Her name, alone, remains sacred. Buried.

In her seat, Bridget lurches forward. Fists clamped together, bangle twinkling almost mischievously. Joan despises her; hate fills her to the brim, so rich and warm. She will not give this fiend the benefit of a breakdown, a ruinous collapse.

“Penny for your thoughts on Vera?”

_Vee-rah._

It’s not what Westfall is looking for and Joan is glad of the fact. Revels in it, albeit internally. They were all so determined to fault this core of darkness.

“You would benefit in respecting her anger,” comes ridicule without pause.

A thin smirk curves her mouth at the corner. Shrews can be tamed. She sinks into the rigid chair so unlike her leather throne, but it’s destined for reclamation. Steepling her fingers, she folds her legs. Bides her time.

“What you call anger, I justify as self-belief,” Joan rationalizes. “She needed to believe in herself.”

Dubious, Bridget acknowledges the finality of this conversation. There is nothing left to be had; her prying didn’t put together the jigsaw and reassemble the broken menagerie. It’s not defeat she feels, it’s indescribable.

“Does she?”

Ferguson musters a Cheshire Cat grin. Her uniform slithers and shifts. Sporadically, she taps her wrist two-fold.

“Well, would you look at the time?”

The clock’s hand stops to deliver another victory. All too soon, these sessions lose meaning. Seeking mistaken guidance, wary bodies drag themselves into Bridget Westfall’s office, a sanctuary she hoped to offer many.

In shuffles another poor, unfortunate soul. In passing, Vera Bennett hears the hum of a screw. She ignores the shift change, the man who leaves her behind. This narrative is tailored specifically for her. She wants to believe in this: reform, this session, Bridget. Lord knows Vera used to. Fidgety hands pat her lap. Idleness seldom bodes well.

Despite the conflict of interest, Bridget doesn’t take the time to assess a friend. The thin line known as professionalism wavers. Her palm cradles her cheek, elbow perched on the arm rest. This second session feels more comfortable, more human.

“Setting goals may be an active step forward to improve your situation.”

“Nothing will change my current predicament, Bridget,” she snips, in pain and in wrath, misdirecting the source of her agony. “The truth’s a bastard,” she echoes what she sold to Fletch.

The guilt lessens, replaced by a perpetual exhaustion and a near snappish temper. The old Vera is still somewhere there. As a symptom of girlhood insecurity, she hugs herself a bit too tight. She sucks the air in between her teeth. Nothing makes her whole. 

“I’m still here and I’m still… on the verge of becoming her,” she continues her rambling, her venting of frustrations, of conflicted complications.

It’s not becoming Joan, she fears; it’s something more. Something twisted and conflicted and a wanting that drives her mad. Deflated, she sinks into the cushion, further than a stone skipping the shoreline. Her knuckles trace her grooved forehead, she’s ill-prepared for Bridget’s consolation. She’d rather a glass to nullify.

Some parasitic relationships prove beneficial. Joan seems to lie at the root of her being.  
 She couldn’t move on, forgive and forget seemed an incomprehensible thought. Neither woman could, caught in the repetitive tide of their betrayal, grief, and frustration.

“You’re not her, Vera.”

She blanches.

“-No,” she cuts her short, unwilling to hear the rest of the psychobabble package. “But I feel empty.”

The session ends in stone silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean no slander against the field of psychology or Bridget's character; this is a work of fiction and follows a long-winded narrative. I actually like Bridget a lot!
> 
> Lyrics from Pap Smear: ' Many shades of white, many shades of pale, I know how to cut a wound that will not heal. '


	22. Courtship Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joan and Vera share a drink and a memory of those wonderfully tempting debriefs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's another multi-chaptered FT fic I wanted to work on for the holidays, but I'm uncertain since I'm slowly producing content for Leverage. Decisions, decisions...

> “You will say  
>  See, I have come back from the soft arms  
>  I turned from in the old days.”
> 
> _57.] fragments_ \- Sappho

After the session, Vera feels the same: empty. She doesn’t quite know how to describe the sensation other than some temporal loss that festers within her chest. It burns like any other ache.

By her side, Linda saunters along. She wears her usual half-smirk, sea blue eyes glistening without mirth.

“You remember the riot?” Smiles asks, her hands clasped before her waist. A part of her, corroded nature and all, expresses concern. “She might as well have held the needle to your throat, Vera.”

Wincing, Vera turns away. The memory bubbles to the surface, boils, and scalds. She wants to flee; at the very least, she yearns to seek refuge in her murky, miserable cell.

“Channing was responsible for holding open the door to the isolation unit, not Ferguson. He overruled her, your white knight. You’d take care to remember that,” she goes on, pricking and stinging with aged trauma.

It’s a conservation they’ve had before.

“No matter our disagreements, I’m telling you that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Vera counters incredulously. “All you’ve ever cared about, _Linda_ , is selfish pleasures to accompany your steady cash-flow. We’re done.”

She uses a steel-cut voice perfect for governing a penitentiary: cold and unwavering. She learned it best from another more wicked than her.

Nonchalant, Deputy Governor Miles backs off with an ample shrug. The concern, unlike her slick temperament, is fleeting.

“It’s your funeral.”

In her cell, the Devil schemes, but she doesn’t dream. Joan crooks her finger. Like always, Vera finds the spell near impossible to break, but she isn’t a lamb to the slaughter. Passing by no longer remains an option.

My, how they’ve fallen from their old status, their former crowning glory.

“Do come in, Vera. Make yourself at home.”

There’s no red door, no accompaniment of modern art, no vestiges from childhood, no trophies to grace unrefined solitary confinement. For privacy, she closes the cell. Vera’s tongue rolls along the inside of her cheek, tracing the grooves and valleys. Curiously, she studies the unlabeled shampoo bottle, white and holy in the dirtiest of places.

“Help from a little birdy,” Joan offers. Being a former Governor continues to have its merits despite enemy lines.

Joan tuts. Splayed fingers rest in her lap, the material of the prison-issued uniform slightly wrinkled underneath. She smooths out the lines. Prim and proper, despite her predicament, she resembles a statue that honors some Old Testament Queen.

“Now isn’t the time to wear your cross and hammer, Vera. Sit with me.”

The mouse declines the offer, standing as tall as she can muster. Her stare seldom wavers. She takes all of Joan in. Tension pulls at her calves and thighs.

“Shiraz, I assume.”

Vera takes a stab. A wild guess.

She believes the smuggled in liquor to be courtesy of some warped peace treaty between Stevens and Ferguson _. What an unholy union._ Her voice lacks luster, drained of life, the shine gone from her eyes.

Joan purses her lips. Remains a difficult hand to read until she shakes her head and whispers the truth of the matter.

“No. Pinot.”

Two pours fill polished, meticulously neat glasses. Vera thinks about how many times they’ve been washed to Joan’s liking. Too many to count, she figures.

Her shoulders remain cadaverously stiff.

The scrape of blunt, manicured nails scrape Vera’s fingertips as she accepts the poison from her favorite snake. She finds herself craving the touch, stepping closer to the dangerous fire that is Joan Ferguson. They clink their glasses together in an unnamed, unspoken toast.

Desperate for immediate gratification, Vera takes a heart sip. Two sips becomes three (a treacherous number).

“Ah, ah,” Joan admonishes in the same, old way that causes Vera’s stomach to drop, her anxiety harping. She flinches, but swears that she’s stronger than this.

Sourly, sullenly, she stares. Represses a childish pout.

“Savor it,” she demands in dictatorial fashion before adding a meager, albeit equally shocking request. “ _Please_.”

So, she rolls the red across the bed of her tongue. Sniffs the bullshit fragrance marketing tries to sell you. In prison, the appeal is lost, but it’s good going down. Warms her belly, her heart, her soul. Gives her an inkling of hope in the way the glory days used to.

“It’s good.”

Joan hides her smile behind the brim of her cup, as faint as a dissipating dawn mist.

“Good.”

It takes her back to the debrief: how she poured more vodka over tonic. There’s no guilt to be had there.

Vera reflects on their first debrief - how she was too eager, too willing, too starved for attention. After all this time, she finds herself constantly craving, perpetually hungry, for Joan’s maelstrom, her spotlight stare. Although disappointment wanes, it lingers on the back-burner.

Everything that they shared is now haunted.

“You’ve changed, Vera.”

Joan’s voice cuts through the perturbing silence. Hypocrites in the strongest sense of the word, Vera indulges the conversation that takes place within this prison torture. Dust settles the pretense of old wrongs. She lifts her eyes from behind the polished glass, watching and refusing to speak.

“Our work was good, but never done.”

Is that a hint of lamentation that Vera detects?

Lies, slander, and riddle-speak.

Skeptical, she presses for more. She searches for something familiar in Joan’s cool, authoritarian profile.

“What are you planning, Joan?”

She taps her greying temple.

“The greatest victory is that which requires no battle. Sun Tzu, _The Art_ _of_ _War_. A good illusionist never reveals her secrets.”

She talks like a pariah, but this isn’t the coming of a new era.

“I need you by my side,” Joan commands, the scales unbalanced.

She keeps her in like a crypt, tempted by the promise of a compromise. A nagging voice in the back of her mind: _give the lunatic a chance_. A shake of the head commences. What matter of folly is this?

“I’ll…” She wets her lips. Finds herself thirstier than she’s ever been. “Think about it,” Vera concludes with growing apprehension.

Heat slithers through her veins and pumps a fire through her arteries. It gives her the courage to make a move. How she wishes she could stay. All this collateral makes the feat a difficult one.

Tempted by the fire of that coal-black stare, she chooses to swear it off and turn the other cheek. Like a good girl, she finishes her drink before she leaves. Here lies the privilege of becoming someone she hates.

Her gnarled, scarred hand lingers mid-air, following Vera, before dropping entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from Courtship Dating: "How do I feel for thee? You smell of great disease." & "Heaven should interfere. I'm coming from your tears."

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles are inspired by one of my favorite bands, Crystal Castles. I have a feeling that this fic will be a long, emotional overhaul with many chapters to come!


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